Made to be Broken
by JamesLuver
Summary: He had promised her that he wouldn't give up on hope. But promises were made to be broken.
1. The End is Night

**A/N:** This came to me a few days ago when I read a quote from Brendan Coyle. **Don't read any further if you want to avoid any series three speculation/spoilers.** Obviously I doubt that this is going to be anywhere near what happens in the show, but I wanted to get it out there regardless.

The quote that made me write this in the first place went like this: "All I can tell you is Bates is in prison. Possibly he could be killed in prison, possibly he could take his own life."

Do I think that the above will happen? No. But that's not to say Bates won't attempt to do just that...

The title comes from the Goo Goo Dolls' _Iris_, because I couldn't think of anything better.

**Disclaimer:** Anna and Bates would be busy practicing the art of baby-making if _Downton Abbey_ was mine...

* * *

_Made to be Broken_

_1. The End is Night_

_An increase in light gives an increase in darkness _– Sam Francis.

It is cold in his cell. John shivers. The thinning sheets on the bed do nothing to protect him against the biting dampness. His knee throbs. He will barely be able to walk in the morning.

Somewhere, someone is causing a ruckus. They happen every now and then. Someone will start screaming to high hell, begging to be let out, slamming themselves against the iron bars that keep them prisoner. It is awful to listen to. John wants to be sick. The urge usually overcomes him at night. The prison food does not agree with him. It's awful. He has lost weight – a lot of it. But he controls the urge, working his throat against the bile that wants to rise up. He sits up on his narrow bed, wincing. He refuses to look in the direction of those bars on the door. The thought of one of the other prisoners watching his every move from across the corridor makes his skin crawl. He has always been a private man. There is no hope of privacy here. The openness frightens him, makes him feel exposed. He is ashamed of that fact; he is a grown man, not a boy. In the darkness of the night, however, there is no point in denying it.

The darkness knows everything.

The first of the panic hits him then, and he doubles over in distress. Squeezing his eyes closed and bending his head so that if he opened his eyes he will be looking directly at the floor, he tries to regulate his breathing,

_(in, out. In, out)_

just like he had on those awful days in Africa. Sweat pools at his temples and trickles down the side of his face. It drenches his back. For a moment, he is sure that if he opens his eyes he will see the dead and the dying in the harsh sunlight of Africa. He fancies that he can already smell the sickly-sweet stench of baking flesh in the searing heat.

He whimpers, his eyes flying open. He is met only by the pressing darkness. Somehow, this is worse. He can't see what is lurking in the shadows.

_Think of something else,_ he tells himself, knowing that it will only be a few seconds until he starts panicking uncontrollably – perhaps to the extent that he'll be the next one to cause a spectacle. He can already feel the scream bubbling in his throat, wanting to burst free of its confines. _Anything else. It doesn't matter._

Desperately, he starts searching his mind for something else. There is, inevitably, only one topic that will keep his panic at bay.

Anna.

Anna, smiling and happy. Anna, her laughter sweeter than any song. Anna, flushed with the exertions of their lovemaking, peaceful and content.

He frowns. The image will not hold. Because how often has he truly seen Anna happy during their courtship? For the most part, the smiles have been strained, the happiness tentative at best. The laughter has been forced. The peace given to them by their wedding night had lasted just that – one short night.

Instead, it is far too easy to remember her as she is now. Tired and strained. Pale and drawn. Obviously unhappy. How is he supposed to take comfort from the thought of his wife when she is so dreadfully dejected? She understandably does not gain any comfort from the thought of him being locked up and secreted away, living in cramped conditions and utter filth. So why should he be allowed the luxury of recalling his wife so joyful and carefree? He has no right whatsoever.

His mind, inevitably, drifts to her visit just earlier that day. The hollowness of the words that had passed between them

_(I won't give up hope I'll get you out somehow one day something will occur to us and we'll follow it up and the case against you will crumble)_

had made his heart ache in his chest. He always tries to steer conversation away from his imprisonment, hating to see the way that Anna's face is beginning to look haggard, the way that she is obviously losing weight through worry, the way that the dark circles under her eyes tell him that she is not sleeping. All of this points towards the fact that he is

_(a complete waste of space; she'd be better off without me)_

the worst sort of husband.

Even his attempts at drawing Anna's attention away from his predicament do little to help either of them. She doesn't seem to like talking about life at Downton Abbey – it only emphasises his absence, and she is already horribly aware of that. He bears those conversations in the vain optimism that it _will_ make her feel better, but he himself hates to hear them because

_(only Anna is really missing me)_

they only make him lose faith with every day that passes. The days have slid by into months. The months are tilting dangerously towards a full year. And then there are years ahead of him in this place, yawning menacingly, his cell some heinous monster's belly. With every day that passes, another piece of his soul dies. There is no hope in the world anymore. He is stuck here. For him, time has stopped short. The rest of the world still lives, breathes. He is like a ghost trapped upon the earth, doomed to observe but never to be touched again. Anna always refrains from mentioning Thomas when the talk turns to Downton, but she doesn't have to mention his name for him to know that Lord Grantham is pleased with the former footman's work.

He doesn't even have a purpose outside of these prison walls anymore. He isn't useful to Lord Grantham, who has found someone equally capable of filling his role; he isn't even useful to Anna. Not in the state he is now.

Grief suddenly overcomes him, overpowering him like a strong punch to the gut. He doubles over again, clenching his teeth against the agonised sob that wants to wrench itself free of his throat. He won't cry. He is weak and powerless enough as it is.

Still, he can't stop his darkening thoughts: he had become superfluous a long time ago. Lord Grantham is not floundering without him. Anna doesn't need him clinging onto her like invisible chains around her wrists. She could have a full life, a happy life, somewhere else, with someone else. Instead he is dragging her down, smothering her. How can she possibly love someone who has taken so much of her light away from her?

_If you weren't here,_ the small, sly voice in his head tells him. _Just imagine that._

How easy it is to imagine it. Anna with a genuine smile, on the arm of someone worthy. Anna being given the family life that she so richly deserves: a couple of beautiful, perfect children, a cosy family home, a fulfilling relationship. Anna being kissed, adored, cherished the way she ought to be.

It makes his heart ache.

Slowly, he snakes a hand underneath the hard mattress. For a few heart-stopping seconds, he thinks his prize has vanished, but then his fingers close around the cool, impossibly thin, deceptively lethal treasure. He withdraws it with shaking fingers.

The piece of glass glitters innocently in the squalid moonlight. Its edge is jagged and sharp. He doesn't need to run his thumb over it to know that it would break his skin at the slightest touch.

He'd picked it up on a whim the other week at dinner, when his glass had slipped off the table and shattered on the floor. It is as though he'd been in a trance when he'd bent down and scooped it up, as though the piece of glass was hypnotising him, urging him to take it away. It has been hiding underneath his mattress since then, taken out only when his mind had turned towards

_(sweet sweet oblivion)_

those darker thoughts. He'd told himself that he is simply keeping it as an act of defiance; it is a miracle that some portentous guard hasn't taken his picture of Anna away from him yet, because the guards do not like the thought of their worthless prisoners having such comforting items when they should be made to suffer for the crimes that they have committed. Especially the murderers.

_(Pathetic, disgusting vermin. Forget life imprisonment; the whole lot should be hanged)_

It feels like a betrayal to admit that, in recent nights, the tiny piece of glass has been more of a comfort to him than the picture of his wife has. It has fascinated him with the power of destruction that it potentially possesses. The only thing that has stopped him from testing it for himself over the last few weeks is the thought of Anna. Anna's grief. Anna's heartbreak.

But now his thoughts have changed, warped. It would be better for Anna in the long run if he wasn't around. It is no good that he is in prison for murder. If she meets someone else while he is incarcerated…well, there is nothing she can do. He couldn't finance a divorce, not now. She wouldn't be able to either. She could perhaps do what she had always told him she was willing to do – run away, live in sin with a man. Worse, she might believe that she has a duty as his wife to stand by him, despite the calling of her heart. That isn't fair to her. She should be free to marry a man who can give her the world if she asked for it.

In the long run, it would be better for her if he is dead. She'd be able to mourn for the respectable amount of time and then bury him forever in the recesses of her memories, never to be dwelled on again. It is the perfect solution.

It would also be better for him, too. Never again would he have to sit in the darkness, panic just on the edge of his mind, fearful of opening his mouth or looking at someone in the wrong way in case it incurred anyone's wrath. He wouldn't have to gaze upon Anna's pale, defeated face and feel the utter shame and overwhelming self-loathing that it is down to him that she looks so broken. In fact, if it hadn't been for her

_(earnest face, so earnest, so full of love that it almost breaks his heart, her eyes boring into his, her voice softer than velvet as she asks, "you won't give up, will you?"_

"_I won't give up."_

_That plaintive love on her face, in her voice, surrounding him, healing him, breaking him. "You promise?"_

"_I promise.")_

desire for him to give her his word, he would have finished matters as soon as he'd found that little piece of glass.

He had promised her

_(ardently enough to satisfy her, at least for the moment; her face had lit up with the ghost of a smile that he had not seen in a long time)_

but his heart hadn't really been in it.

The glass glitters in his hand. It is calling for him, telling him to end things while he still can. There is no point in drawing out the suffering – for everyone involved. If he does this, everyone will be happier.

Slowly, like a man possessed, he presses the edge of the glass against the inside of his wrist. It is cool to his burning skin, a blessed relief.

In that split-second, with the glass pressed against him like the forgotten touch of a lover, he makes his decision.

He closes his eyes tightly, conjures up the image of his wife for the final time. He chooses the happiest memory that he can: the simple, pure joy on her face as he'd confessed his love for her for the very first time.

And then, offering up whatever prayer he can to a god that he doesn't even believe in to give Anna strength, he presses down.

* * *

**A/N:** I don't believe I have the finesse to describe the rest, but hopefully this was handled sensitively and delicately enough.

I'll be taking a break from this just for a couple of days while I tweak the final chapter of _Five Years_. After that, I'll be coming back to this as I want to hopefully get it finished before any serious spoilers for series three start filtering out. I don't see it being very long; maybe four or five chapters at the most.


	2. Night Time Musings

**A/N:** Here's chapter two, complete with more angst.

* * *

_2. Night Time Musings_

_Look at how a single candle can both defy and define the darkness_ – Anne Frank.

Anna sits alone in the servants' hall. A single candle burns in front of her, shimmering unfocusedly in front of her fatigued eyes. She knows that she should at least try to sleep. It promises to be a busy day tomorrow. Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew are hosting their first dinner as a married couple, and she will need to make sure that Lady Mary is looking absolutely perfect in every way. There can be no room for errors on such an important evening.

And yet Anna knows that she won't sleep, even if she retires to bed. Sleep is never going to be a true option until her husband is in his rightful place beside her, slumbering quietly next to her in their very own bed, perhaps with his arm around her waist. How can she possibly sleep knowing that night after night after night, John is spending his time in a dank, grimy cell, surrounded by other murderers and thieves?

So she sits alone in the servants' hall. She likes it better at night, when no one else is around. Although she reassures John that she is perfectly fine and that everyone is so kind and supportive whenever she sees him, it is not strictly true. O'Brien seems to have mellowed somewhat; the lady's maid is subdued and almost _considerate_ whenever she is in her presence. Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes are the same as they have always been, perhaps a little more sympathetic and much more lenient with her, given the circumstances, two welcome, reassuring presences. Thomas is his usual detestable self – Anna is surprised and a little scared by the level of loathing that she feels whenever she sees Thomas entering the room wearing his valet's uniform – _John's_ uniform. Thomas is so smug with it, so arrogant. She would like nothing more than to slap that expression from his face in the most painful way possible. Then there are the others. The maids, who avert their eyes whenever she enters the room, as though she carries a terrible curse and getting too close to her will ultimately mean that they are infected as well. The hall boys, who sneer at her and daringly allow their eyes to travel over her, as though she is a woman with no morals who just might be willing to let them close to her given that she is without her husband's touch. The footmen, who whisper none too subtly that the two of them were in it together, that they were both murdering, deceitful sinners. All of them make Anna's skin crawl and her eyes tear. What used to be a job that she was so proud of, so enthused by, has become something that she just has to bear, like everything else in her life that is awful. She gets no enjoyment out of it. She can barely look Lady Mary in the eye anymore; Lady Mary, who looks so happy and relaxed and content with early married life. She can't help feeling

_(completely justifiably?) _

that

_(it's all her fault; she stole the happiness that I should have had)_

it just isn't fair. How can it be right that she, a young woman who has always worked hard and known her place and accepted her little, simple life, has to put up with so much trauma and heartbreak when Lady Mary, a woman who disregards social rules, does whatever she likes, and has not done a thing for herself in her whole life, can have the happiness she wants handed to her on a silver platter whenever she clicks her fingers?

_Stop it, Anna,_ she thinks firmly. _You're not a bitter person. You don't really blame Lady Mary._

She doesn't really know who she _does_ blame anymore. Perhaps she should be blaming herself. Perhaps this is God's punishment for her, for seducing a married man away from his wedding vows, for enticing him away from the light.

_You are my light,_ he's always told her. But what if he's wrong? What if she's nothing more than the illusion of light? What if the darkness – something that makes it so easy to fall prey to things that are not really there – has deluded him into thinking that she is good and pure and right when she is anything but that? Perhaps that is where the problem lies. Not with him. Not with Lady Mary. Not with the people who judge and sneer without knowing the facts. Perhaps it is her.

_You're going to drive yourself mad thinking like that,_ she tells herself.

But isn't she already on her way to madness? Isn't she already hearing his phantom footsteps in the hallway when he is nowhere in sight? Doesn't she hear his voice in her head when she's trying to sleep? Doesn't she sometimes feel the ghostly touch of his fingers caressing her skin when she is alone? Isn't she

_(a complete and utter hypocrite, telling him not to give up when she barely has faith left herself)_

scared that all of the fighting she is doing will be for nothing?

_It's just the darkness thinking for you. Of course you're not giving up. You'll never give up. Not when he's relying on you._

But she fears that she's buckling under the pressure of his weight. She cannot possibly keep them both afloat for much longer. And there's something about John's eyes lately

_(flat dull hopeless dead)_

that she doesn't like. As though he is hiding something from her, something that doesn't even bear contemplating. She's been looking to bring the subject up with him for the last few weeks, but she's never found the right way to phrase it yet. So instead she's made him promise

_(with this ring…as a symbol of all that they promise…)_

to keep his faith while she fights for his innocence, hoping that it will be enough to keep him strong while she finds a way to question his sudden withdrawal. He is difficult to be around at the moment, and it scares her. It's not as though he is sullen and insolent and surly, though he certainly has been like that on some of her visits in the past year. She doesn't blame him for his erratic moods. She knows nothing of what life is like for him inside. She has tried to ask, gently tried to prompt him, let him know that she is there for him no matter the horrors that burden his soul, but he remains as stoic and silent as usual, bearing everything that haunts him by himself. If he opened up to her, she wonders, would he find things easier to deal with?

_Perhaps you should take your own advice,_ a treacherous voice whispers in the back of her mind. _Do you think you're fooling him when you pretend that everything's fine?_

Of course she isn't. He only needs to look into her face to see how their separation is affecting her. And does she have any right to his promises, when she can't even be trusted to keep her own promises to him?

_("Promise me you'll make friends, have fun, live life."_

"_I'll try…I promise.")_

Because she hasn't tried. She hasn't tried to have fun because she knows that she can't possibly enjoy herself without him. Even at the servants' ball, after knowing that he was going to escape the gallows, she couldn't find it within herself to put on her best dress and enjoy an evening of dancing. All she'd been able to think of was

_(the last servants' ball, oh how splendid it had been, how perfect, swaying with him on the outskirts of the room, knowing that he was unable to dance with her the way that he wanted to, but having him in her arms was more than enough for her, holding him close, the smell of his cologne wafting through her senses and making her head spin as though she'd been drinking, and then, later on, out in the courtyard after the ball had finished, kissing each other feverishly, as though the closeness that the evening had brought was an erotic aphrodisiac, her hands working feverishly at his collar, his hand moving low over her hip –)_

the memory of the last servants' ball they'd spent together, and it had made her so sad that she couldn't even entertain the thought of enjoying herself, not when he was locked away, suffering God knew what. She hasn't tried to make friends because there isn't anyone at Downton Abbey who even wants to get close to her. Mrs. Hughes and Lady Mary are her closest confidantes, but the social differences between her and Lady Mary mean that they can never be truly friends, and while Mrs. Hughes has been so kind to her, she is more of a mother figure than a friend; she can't see herself sharing her more intimate fears with the housekeeper. And she certainly can't even think about living life, not without him. They are so inexplicably joined that she will only start being a whole person again when he is released from prison.

The candlelight seems to be glistening, as though it is somehow managing to survive through a veil of water. Anna narrows her eyes against it. It brings so little into the light, into reality. Most of the shadows are murky and threatening. Anna doesn't know what is lurking out of sight. Her head bobs slightly, but she fights her fatigue. She needs to get back to the subject at hand: John's recent behaviour. Something about his

_(dead dead eyes)_

recent words is bothering her. She doesn't know what it is precisely, but there is something that isn't quite right about him. Is it the

_(insincere)_

way that he gave her his promises? Do they signal the loss of hope that she has been trying so desperately to hold onto? Is that what it is? Is she frightened that she'll be left to fight for both of them alone after all? She fears that he will drag her down into the icy depths if he lets go of his faith in her. She can't keep them both above the water on her own. Perhaps they will both drown.

No. She can't think like that. It will do neither of them any good. She has to keep positive, like she always has done. He needs her to be strong, not a weak woman who is contemplating letting the tide sweep her away. On her next visit, which is only a few days away, she will try to restore his faith.

_How? How will you do that?_

It doesn't matter, not now. What matters is

_(that he keeps strong so she doesn't have to face the darkness alone)_

the fact that she is determined to succeed, no matter what. The candle in front of her eyes blurs; without realising it, her eyes slide to slits. The candlelight is still there, just a shimmering myriad of colours dancing obnoxiously in front of her, but she finds that she can't lift her head to dispel them; it feels leaden. It is much easier to leave it hanging there, beaten down, and then –

_(– then they are twirling together in a frenzy of limbs, and it's so much different from the last servants' ball, yet at the same time it's not different at all; their bodies are pressed close together, so close that she can feel him, hot and heavy through his trousers, and she moans her appreciation, knowing that this evening they won't have to stop at a furtive fumble outside in the courtyard, and she closes her eyes to reach up to kiss his neck, but her lips come into contact with something coarse, something rough, something aberrant, and she opens her eyes to find him stiff in her arms, a noose around his neck, eyes sightless, and she knows that he was found guilty and now he is dead dead dead)_

the telephone rings, its sound harsh and shrill, shattering the deathly quiet of the servants' hall. Anna jerks awake at once with a cry, temporarily disorientated, half-expecting her husband to be lurking in the shadows with the hangman's noose still around his neck, before she realises that it had just been a dream, that John is alive if not well, and –

– And the telephone is still ringing, she realises. Who could possibly be ringing at this time? No one they know would ever dare, unless…

…Unless it was urgent.

Anna's blood curdles in her veins. Stumbling to her feet, the only thing she can think of is her husband. She cracks her elbow against the doorframe as she practically runs from the room, but she doesn't even feel it as she races towards the butler's pantry in the dark. Twice she almost trips over lurking silhouettes. Bile claws at her throat. It can't possibly be for anyone else. Everyone else in the house is safe and warm, knowing that the other members of their family are safe and warm as well.

She hurtles into Mr. Carson's room, knocking a decanter from his desk in her haste. It explodes on the floor, but she doesn't notice it. Her hands are trembling too much to pick up the phone on the first try, and it almost slips out of her fingers when she does succeed because she is suddenly sweating madly. Terrified of what she'll find on the other end, she speaks into it.

"Hello?" Her voice sounds as though she's swallowed gravel. It's not recognisably human at all.

The voice on the other end is a complete juxtaposition, clipped and professional. "Good evening, my name is Mr. Jackson. Is this the residence of Downton Abbey that I have reached?"

"Yes," Anna croaks.

"Good, good. I am the warden at Pentonville Prison in London."

Panic hits here then. She groans aloud down the phone. All of her nightmares are coming true.

"John?" she says. Somewhere in the darkness, she can hear the echoes of laughter, some demon revelling in her torment. "What's wrong with my husband? Is he okay? Is he ill? Has he been attacked? Has he –"

"May I speak to a Mrs. Bates, please?" Mr. Jackson interrupts, as though he hasn't heard her.

"Yes, I'm speaking!" she snaps. "Now tell me –"

"Mrs. Anna Bates? Married to Mr. John Bates, currently of Pentonville Prison?"

"Yes! How many bleedin' Anna Bateses do you think there are in this house married to one of your prisoners!? Now, for the love of God, tell me what's wrong with my husband!"

Her heart is pounding so fast that she thinks she might be sick. She is shaking harder than she ever has done in her life. Tears are already welling up in her eyes. She can't stop her thoughts

_(dead hurt dead bleeding dead ill dead dead dead)_

from turning to the dream

_(or nightmare?)_

that she's just had. Her knuckles are white on the phone; she's gripping it that hard. Her other hand is pressed sharply against her stomach, an unconscious pose that she always adapts whenever she is scared or upset.

For the first time since the beginning of the phone conversation, Mr. Jackson's voice softens. He sounds much more human now…and almost sad. "I'm terribly sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, Mrs. Bates, but I'm afraid…I'm afraid your husband attempted suicide earlier this evening…"

The world collapses around her, its weight too much to take. The phone falls slackly from Anna's ear. Her fingers are boneless now, and it falls from her grip and hits the floor with an ear-splitting bang, rolling across the flagstones before coming to rest in the corner like a preying snake, waiting to strike its next victim, leering at her in the darkness. Sweat rolls from her forehead in rivers. The warden's last words

_(suicide suicide suicide suicide suicide)_

ring in her ears like a deafening mantra. She opens her mouth – she isn't sure what for – and empties what little is in her stomach onto Mr. Carson's floor. The inside of her mouth tastes acrid and woollen. She inhales shakily. The next thing she is aware of is a high-pitched keening, a scream of utter anguish. It takes her failing mind a few moments to realise that _she_ is the one who is screaming, screaming loudly enough to raise the dead. And still the cacophony of sound is louder in her head, a hellish choir –

_(suicide suicide suicide)_

The darkness, her most frequent lover, opens its arms and welcomes her.

* * *

**A/N:** As far as I know, it's not stated what London prison Bates is in. Therefore I googled "London prisons 1920s", and Pentonville is one of the ones that came up. If I'm wrong, please feel free to correct me so that I can make this more accurate. :)

I'll be starting chapter three within a few days, so hopefully it'll only be another couple of weeks before the next chapter is up.


	3. Lost in the Darkness

**A/N:** Apologies for the delay! I lost my way for a while with this chapter and allowed work to dictate my actions for a bit. You have **Brette O'Connell** to thank for this chapter being up today - without her prompting me, it wouldn't be finished yet.

Yes, there's more angst here. Did you expect anything less?

* * *

_3. Lost in the Darkness_

…_in the end there is only darkness. Sometimes we find others in that darkness, and sometimes we lose them there again _– Stephen King.

Anna sits in the front of the motor, looking more tired and pale than she ever has done before. She can feel the almost constant burn of the chauffer's eyes on her as he glances sideways at her every now and then, his gaze

_(accusing, sneering)_

curious. She wants to snap at him to keep his eyes on the road, but she doesn't have the willpower to do it. She doesn't have the willpower to do _anything_. So instead she hunches herself up and presses herself against the car door, pretending to be immersed in the dirty London streets as they crawl down the roads. She isn't taking any of it in, though. The landscape in front of her might be teeming with the bustle of everyday activity in London, but the only thing that she is seeing as she stares out the window is the image of her husband lying

_(dead)_

prone in a hospital bed. She can't help but shiver at the thought. Although the doctor she had spoken to on the phone had reassured her that her husband was in a relatively stable condition despite his very earnest attempt to take his own life, she cannot prevent her mind from dwelling on the details.

Those wretched, terrible details.

How he had been found by the

_(merest of chances, the will of Fate)_

guard who had been on duty that night – he'd been dealing with a commotion at the other end of the cell block and had been alerted to the new emergency by the inmate who occupied the cell across from where John was. John had once told her that

_(the walls have eyes and ears here)_

the man never missed a trick; many times he had unnerved John simply by sitting at the bars of his cell and staring across.

Thank God he had been last night.

The rest of the details, Anna can barely bear to recall

_(blood, so much blood, unresponsive, pale, dying dying dying)_

but she knows that she must in order to keep everything in perspective. The guard had apparently rushed into the cell and, through some miracle, had enough medical knowledge to staunch the steady flow of blood from John's wrists effectively.

Anna feels sick. She wonders if she should ask the driver to pull over for a moment so that she can step outside and breathe in the air, but the air in London is foul, and she knows that it would do her no good.

"You must ring us with news," Mrs. Hughes had instructed her as she'd helped her throw a travelling case together earlier that morning. "Everyone will be desperate to know how Mr. Bates is. Ring us as soon as you can."

Anna had agreed to, if only to stop the incessant stream of well-meaning but unwanted support. She'd wanted the solitude, not the overbearing torrent of pity. She'd felt as if she was suffocating.

That morning, the commotion of her screaming in Mr. Carson's pantry had not gone unnoticed. The hour had been so much later than she'd thought it was – four! – and at that moment, young Ivy had been quietly going about her first duties of the day. She had panicked when she'd heard the noise, and had rushed straight upstairs to wake Mrs. Hughes and inform her. It had been the housekeeper who had found her lying passed out on the floor amongst the shattered glass. Mr. Jackson had still been on the other end of the telephone, his voice tinny, hollering down the line for some kind of response. The sound had given the odd impression of ghosts long passed whispering in the room. Anna had come to when Mrs. Hughes had poured a trickle of water over her face and

_(her first impression upon fluttering her eyelashes was the fact that it was her husband standing above her, dripping his blood all over her face, his final, gory sacrifice for her)_

she'd screamed aloud again, scrambling to her feet. Mrs. Hughes had demanded to know what on earth was going on, and somehow she'd managed to choke the whole terrible tale out.

Now, Anna slumps further down in her seat. Tears are threatening again. It seems as if she's done nothing but cry since the terrible news had found her. She tries to divert herself, tries to think of anything but him, but it's not to be. Because for so long he has been the one thing that consumes her thoughts, the one person who has kept her going. Now, that once reassuring leaning post has been taken away from her, and there is nothing there to stop her from pitching forward into the black abyss of nothingness. Her imagination keeps conjuring up new images to taunt her with; images of John's wounds opening again; of him reaching out to finish the job that he had failed earlier; of him forever retreating into the darkness. She knows if she doesn't catch him soon, then she will lose him there forever.

The car stops with a jolt, and Anna is jerked out of her terrifying thoughts. Twisting in her seat, she realises that they have come to a stop outside Lady Rosamund Painswick's home in Eton Square. The chauffer hops out of the car and moves around to the other side, opening the door. Lady Mary emerges from the back seat, looking as poised as ever. She glances around carelessly as the chauffer walks to the back of the car to retrieve her bags, then strolls to the front window.

"Anna," she says, "give Bates my best wishes. And I expect a full report on how he is when you get back. Papa will be desperate to know."

"Yes, milady." Anna dips her head to hide her tears, but can't stop her voice from wobbling.

Lady Mary surprises her by reaching through the window and laying a supportive hand on her shoulder. "It will be all right, Anna, you'll see. I know it."

If only she could have the same confidence that Lady Mary possesses. But she can't. The only thing she can think of now when she thinks of her husband is

_(his lies, those terrible lies)_

broken promises. How could he have done that to her? How could he have lost his faith when he'd promised her that he wouldn't?

Lady Mary gives her shoulder a comforting squeeze, obviously sensing her maid's inner turmoil, but is unable to find the right words. Anna doubts that there are any right words at the current time. What can possibly make this situation better?

"Go to your husband," she says instead. "Be with him."

Anna nods again, but she keeps her thoughts to herself. She can't voice them to Lady Mary.

_It's not as simple as that anymore._

She wishes it was. She wishes that that was all that needed to be done, just being with him.

At one time, loving him had been enough. Through every moment of heartbreak flung their way, that had been her one constant. And, knowing that he loved her just as much as she loved him, she had known that she could face the world. Vera's return. Vera's death. John's trial. His life imprisonment. All of it had tested their relationship, their love. Anna had thought that nothing would be able to break it. She'd thought that, no matter what came, they'd be able to face it as a united front.

But she has been proven wrong. Love has been proven to be too simple and weak and now she isn't sure that the broken remnants of what they'd once had will be enough to see them through this unscathed.

* * *

John lies silently between stiff white sheets, gazing sightlessly at the ceiling. His heart is beating a sickening tune in his chest. His stomach is rolling with nerves. He can't stop shivering. He is not a man who feels fear easily. In Africa, he hadn't been afraid of getting shot and dying a hero's death amongst the filth, certainly hadn't cared when that had almost happened. Back in England, he had been indifferent to the thought of drinking himself into oblivion. At Downton, he had felt shame but nothing more when all of inadequacies and his past sins had been exposed to the world. Even at the trial which had signed away his life, he had not felt fear for himself, but sorrow for what would be lost, sorrow for Anna.

But now, lying in that narrow bed with nothing to occupy his thoughts, he feels a fear so acute that it is almost agonising. And it is not as simple as fearing for his life.

He is fearful of his wife. Of Anna. Just what must she be thinking?

_She's going to be heartbroken,_ he thinks. _She's going to feel so heartbroken and so betrayed. John Bates, you really are the most worthless of all men._

This time, he thinks that even Anna will agree that his self-hatred is justified.

But there is something else that is troubling him.

_What does this mean? What does any of this mean?_

He exhales shakily. Does it mean that he is the most disgusting of men, a man who thinks more about himself than he does about his wife's welfare and needs?

_Despicable. You're a bastard, Bates._

And yet Anna is still on her way to see him. When the doctor had told him that with a smile, clearly hoping to cheer him up, all he'd felt was absolute horror. Horror at what was to come.

"Why have you done that?" he'd croaked.

The doctor had frowned in confusion. "What do you mean, sir? It's our duty to inform your family. She needs to know about this tragic occurrence."

Tragic occurrence. As though it had all been a misunderstanding, not a calculated attempt to take his own life and leave her alone in the world.

And he's being selfish again because he doesn't want to face her. He doesn't want her to enter this room with all of her light and purity and attempt to coax him away from the darkness. He doesn't deserve to be saved, not now.

His body throbs. He feels sick. And still the darkness calls to him. If only he had succeeded. Deep down, he knows that Anna would be

_(heartbroken, devastated, you know she wouldn't recover)_

better off without him. Why can't she see that? Why can't she accept it?

At one time, her smiling face had been enough to get him through the darkest of days. Now all he can see behind his closed lids is her face crumpled with sorrow, tears scalding her cheeks, her innocent beauty marred by his sinful mistakes.

And any minute now she is going to step through the door and attempt to heal him, even though he doesn't deserve to be healed. And perhaps it's more than that.

Perhaps it's too late. Perhaps he can't be healed, can't be saved at all.

Perhaps he's too far lost in the darkness.

* * *

She is greeted warmly on the ward by a plump little nurse, who smiles cheerfully at her and shakes her hand.

"I'm Nurse Collins," she says. "I've been looking after your husband ever since he arrived last night."

Anna nods unsmilingly. She is tired, so tired. She's tired of everything, of fighting for a future that John clearly does not want as much as she does, of trying to keep her own spirits up when she'd like nothing more than to crawl between the sheets of her bed and never leave again.

"Mr. Bates is in a stable condition now," the nurse continues, leading her down the corridor towards his bed. "He was in a bad way last night, but we managed to staunch the blood flow quite quickly and he stabilised soon after that. We gave him morphine for the pain, but it's out of his system now. He'll be alert enough now for your visit."

Her heart is pumping hard in her chest. Despite her deep sense of betrayal, despite her utter grief that he could do such a thing to her, she still feels the same stirring of love in her heart. At this moment in time she hates him, but she could never lie to herself. No matter what he does to her, she will always love him.

Nurse Collins trots ahead a few paces. Other patients in the ward – unkempt, straggly looking men and women – peer at her with interest as Anna follows her, trailing behind. She tries to keep her eyes focused ahead. She thinks that she can hear them whispering

_(yes, that's her, married to the murderer, the one who tried to kill himself, wicked creatures)_

but of course there is no sound. They're in a hospital, after all, and such a place is reserved for the

_(lost souls who are already mentally dead)_

injured and, in some extreme cases, the dying.

She is led the full length of the corridor, towards a bed tucked right in the corner.

Nurse Collins' voice is hushed now as she glances over her shoulder. "We thought your husband would fare better away from the crowds. He's been very quiet since he was admitted, but that's not unusual in these sorts of cases. I think he perhaps just needs a little time to come to terms with everything. I'm sure you'll help him a great deal with that."

Time. Such a simple word. Such a complex issue to understand. How can time make this better? Time will only make it worse, allow things to fester, to grow, to reach out and destroy their precious little world for good. Anna blinks hard, determined not to cry.

"Mr. Bates?" Nurse Collins calls kindly as she nears his bedside, "your wife is here now."

And, finally, Anna is awarded her first sight of her husband since her visit last week. A cry escapes unbidden from her throat. She clamps her hands over her mouth, attempting to control herself. They're trembling.

John is staring listlessly at the ceiling. It's as though he hasn't even heard the nurse's comment. He looks so small, so frail. Anna has never seen him looking weaker or more defeated. Her heart splinters in her chest. It's held together by the most fragile of sinews. She knows that it could break completely at any moment, leaving her with just two halves beating disjointedly against her skin.

"Mr. Bates?" Nurse Collins raises her voice. "I said your wife is here to see you."

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, John moves his gaze away from the ceiling. He fixes upon the nurse for a few moments, then slides it over to Anna. A jolt shudders down her spine. Despite herself, tears well up in her eyes. She has never seen him look at her like that in all of her long years of knowing him. His gaze is

_(dead, he's dead!)_

blank; there is nothing behind his eyes. It's as though he is not seeing her, staring straight through her, as though she is a phantom who can't touch him. Or perhaps _he_ is the phantom who can no longer touch the real world.

Nurse Collins seems to sense the uncomfortable atmosphere, for she glances warily between the two of them. "I'll give you a few minutes alone now."

Neither of them respond to her; the world has shrunk to this one moment in time. Neither of them even notice as she backs away slowly, leaving them completely alone.

It takes Anna a few minutes to rouse herself from the jittery trance that she has fallen into. Swiping her knuckles over her cheeks to remove any trace of her tears, she cautiously moves closer to the bed.

"John?" she says. Her voice wobbles.

The sound of her voice seems to bring some recognition back into his eyes. For the first time, he focuses on her face. Somehow, the lost look in his eyes is infinitely worse than the blank one. She can feel the tears that want to well up again, but she fights them off valiantly. Now is not the time for crying.

Instead, she busies herself with sinking down into the chair by his bedside. Her heartbeat is loud in her head; it's the only thing she can hear. She is sure that if she looks down, she will see it beating hard through her clothing. She wonders if she'd feel the same if she put her ear against his chest; that same, harsh pounding. Or would his heartbeat

_(not exist at all in his dead man's chest?)_

be slow and calculated, an after-effect of the morphine?

Anna tries to keep her eyes focused on her husband's face, though she isn't sure that it is comforting. Now, far from the greyness of prison, she can see how acutely his time away from her has affected him. His hair, once shiny and slicked back, is limp, dishevelled, dirty, greasy, plastered against his head. There are dark circles under his eyes. They are more prominent than bruises on his pale skin, blossoming there like ugly flowers. His stubble is thick; he clearly hasn't seen a razor all week. It occurs to her that this is what he looks like most of the time; this is not the façade he puts on for her. On her visits to him, she has never seen him looking less than what his best can be in such circumstances. Now, sitting in the little wooden chair beside him, she feels like a fool. Of course he wouldn't be allowed to keep himself clean. Of course he'd used his day of washing for her and her alone. Is she truly so naïve, so childish, that she'd thought for one minute that he'd at least had some regular luxuries?

_Stupid, stupid woman._

Still, she daren't take her eyes away from his face, continuing to look over his features. For the first time, she thinks he looks his full age. It is a scary thought. John has gone back to staring at the ceiling, as though he daren't look at her, as though he would tarnish her beauty if he did. And he still hasn't spoken. The silence drags on between them like an endless ocean, drowning them in their suffering. Her fingers tremble. She doesn't know what to do with her hands. The whole scene has taken on a dream-like quality, as though she is viewing the experience from outside her body. And still she stares at him. Still he stares ahead. She wonders if he thinks that if he avoids her gaze long enough, she will become an illusion, a part of the scenery and nothing more.

_You're going to have to look._

The voice in her head is low and inveigling, too practical for comfort. She shakes her head, partly in terror, partly in defiance. No, she can't look. Because if she looks

_(she'll lose her mind, oh lord she will, she'll go round the twist go mad as a hatter never recover from such a ghastly matter)_

she knows that she'll break down and cry, and what good will that do either of them?

She can't stop herself from looking down.

John's hands lie limp on the white bed sheets. Thick bandages criss-cross over each of his wrists. Once white, they are now spotted and saturated with a rusty brown colour. Bile threatens to rise in her throat. Dried blood. A choked sound escapes from her throat. She can't take it. Not this. Never this. The blood spots…they tell the story of how

_(he slashed his wrists again and again, she can see it in her mind's eye, the blood dribbling down over his skin, warm and sickeningly wet, the pain almost unbearable, and still he continued on, clumsily smearing the blood as he changed hands to open his opposite wrist – )_

his hope deserted him. Before she can even register what she is doing, she is reaching forward with shaking hands to gently cup one of his injured wrists between them.

"John," she says again, and she is truly crying now; the tears flood down her cheeks. "John."

At the contact between them, he jumps violently – the first sign that he is

_(not a corpse)_

truly aware of his surroundings. And, for the first time since he briefly acknowledged her arrival, he turns to look at her. She tilts her head so that she is looking directly into his face again, blinking back tears so that she can see him properly, almost certain that his eyes will hold that same blank look –

But they're clear and alert. Somehow, that's even worse.

For a moment, they hold each other's gaze. Anna's view of him is blurry as she tries to fight desperately against her tears. An instant later, her vision clears, only for her to realise, horrified, it's because she has allowed the tears to start to flow down her cheeks again. At the sight of her crying, John's face contorts into the first emotional look that he has given her all visit.

"Anna," he says. His voice is hoarse and cracked, as though he hasn't drank in days. "No, Anna, please don't cry, please –"

And, just like that, the barrier around them is broken.

"What do you expect me to do!?" she shrieks at him, hysterical, furious. "What the bloody hell am I _supposed_ to do after this!?"

He winces at the sound of her swearing, at her harsh tone. "Anna, I'm sorry."

"Sorry!?" She is barely aware of her rising voice, of her incoherent rambling. "Sorry!? You put me through absolute hell, made me terrified that you'd killed yourself, terrified that the worst wasn't over yet, terrified that I hadn't been enough for you, and all you can say is you're sorry!?"

He falls silent, simply staring at her.

"Do you have any idea – _any idea_ – what it's like for me?" She continues, voice trembling as she reaches fever pitch. "Do you understand how hard it is for me as well? I know I know nothing about what you have to go through inside, but do you give any consideration to what _I'm_ feeling? How lonely I am? How tired I am of trying to have enough fight for the both of us? How scared I am of our future? _Do you have any idea?_"

Her tirade ends, and the silence stretches on more tangibly than ever before. She is sniffing hard now to stop herself from sobbing aloud. John is still staring. His features have twisted in an effort to keep his emotions in check. She thinks there might be tears in his eyes, though she can't be sure because of the ones in her own. He opens his mouth as if he is about to speak, closes it, swallows hard, then opens it again. She bristles, waiting for the onslaught.

"I can never take this back," he manages at last, quietly, wretchedly. "Anna, if there is one thing that I regret about this, it's that I've caused you to suffer…"

She can't stop the question from tumbling from her lips. "Why did you do it?"

He lowers his eyes.

"Why did you do it?" she repeats. "Was your faith in me – in _us_ – so weak that you felt that you had no other choice? Did you not care at all that I was trying to free you, trying to make you see that there were things worth living for?"

He has no answer for that.

She laughs, a bitter, twisted sound. It does not suit her, a woman who has tried so hard to be cheerful, so hard to be sunny – the sun that he needs to keep him alive. He recoils from the sound. She sounds like

_(Vera)_

someone who has had all of the joyous parts of life torn away from her.

Her next words have the blood freezing in his veins. "You're not sorry."

"Anna, how could you say that? You have no idea how sorry I am."

She shakes her head violently, lip trembling. "You're only sorry that you didn't succeed and now you have to face me."

How can she

_(know his heart so well)_

accuse him of such things?

"Anna," he croaks, reaching out for her hand, wincing at the pain in his wrist as he does so. She seems mesmerised by his approaching hand for a moment, the hand that she has held so many times, the hand that she's kissed every part of over the years, the hand that in turn knows every hidden crevice of her body. Tentatively, his trembling fingers close around her own wrist. It is meant to be a comforting gesture.

At the contact between the two of them, however, the first bit of physical contact since

_(that last embrace they'd shared before his accepted walk to the gallows)_

that terrible visit all those months ago, she leaps to her feet, yanking her wrist free as though she has been scalded. John stares in confusion as she backs away from him, her blue eyes wide and accusing.

"No," she whispers. It's an agonising sound. "No, I can't do this."

"Anna –" he tries again, but the sound of his voice seems only to spur her further into action.

"I can't," she says again. A choked sob escapes her lips. "I'm sorry."

Neither miss the irony of her apologising to him.

"Please." He is aware that he's begging now, his voice cracking over that one word. Slowly, he extends his hand towards her, willing her to take it, to make everything all right once more.

The sight of those bloodied bandages make her cry out. It surrounds her, suffocates her. She can feel the world closing in on her. She has to get out.

Without a second glance, she turns on her heel and flees, stumbling out of the room with her trembling hands clamped over her mouth. She is sure that everyone in the whole ward is

_(jeering at her, celebrating their downfall)_

watching her as she stumbles away from the scene. Distantly, she hears Nurse Collins calling her name in confusion, but she can't stop now. She can't.

John watches her leave without another word. His hand, held limply in the air as though it hopes to catch her, falls lifelessly to his side. His wrist burns. The bandages chafe. He thinks fresh blood is billowing below the surface. They need changing.

The most acute grief of his life hits him then, as though his mind is only just realising what this means. It arrows straight into his chest, piercing the pumping muscle and paralysing it mid-beat. He thinks that perhaps it is enough to kill him.

The tears that he has been fighting for almost the duration of her too short visit begin to spill down his cheeks now, cutting through the dirt and the grime. He clenches his teeth to stop himself from sobbing out loud.

He's ruined it. He's ruined it all. A moment of madness, a moment of utter loss of control, and now he is left with the pieces of the one good thing in his life lying in tatters at his feet.

Anna is gone. She's

_(not coming back, you know it)_

left him here. And how can he blame her? How can he expect her to forgive him for such a crippling betrayal? For disregarding her in such a hurtful manner? How can she ever forgive him for this?

He doesn't deserve her forgiveness.

Nurse Collins comes to check on him then, and he turns away from her. He wants nothing more to do with the world. He has lost his Anna, his one saving grace. There is nothing for him here anymore.

_There was nothing here for you anymore as soon as you took that piece of glass, Bates. Don't deny it._

He'd let the darkness get the best of him, and now he's paying the price. Because it has swallowed Anna whole, leaving him alone.

He wonders if he'll ever find her in that darkness again, or if he's condemned to a solitude, a lifetime of wandering the darkness alone, waiting for his life to be consumed.

* * *

**A/N:** Bear with me! I struggled a bit with how the initial meeting between the two of them should go, so I'd appreciate hearing your thoughts on it. :)

I'm hopeful that the next chapter won't be too far away - it's complete in draft form, but needs editing. :)


	4. Lunar Eclipse

**A.N:** I had very real problems with this chapter - it's the only one where I wasn't quite sure what should happen and how it should come about. I think that shows here. But c'est la vie, it is what it is.

The quote for this chapter apparently comes from a book called _Beautiful Darkness_. I have never read it, so I don't know if this is how it appears within the text or not, but I figured I'd just leave it in the state that I found it online.

On another note, the catchphrase "stick with it!" comes into play again.

* * *

_4. Lunar Eclipse_

_When you look up/ Do you see the blue sky of what might be/ Or the darkness of what will never be?_ – Kami Garcia and Margaret Stohl.

She can't stay away. Of course she can't. He is her husband. As much as she might hate him at the moment for putting her through hell, she still loves him more than words can say.

So, the next day finds her creeping down the hospital ward towards her husband's bed when the visitation hours come around. Her heart is pounding again. Her limbs tremble. Nurse Collins is at one of the other patient's beds, and casts her a sympathetic glance as she passes. Anna keeps her head down, preferring to watch her feet.

She hadn't slept a wink last night. All she'd done was toss and turn and fret. Lady Mary had been so unbelievably kind to her that it had broken her heart. The young woman had chosen to call off her very first dinner party hosting as a married woman in favour of coming down to London with her maid for support. Anna doesn't know anyone else who would have made such a sacrifice for her.

Lady Mary had smiled softly at her when she'd commented on how she shouldn't have done it.

"You've done enough for me in the past, Anna," she'd said. "Now it's time that I did something for you. The dinner party can be rearranged. In any case, what's the worst that can happen? They'll scorn me a bit. After everything else that's happened, I'm sure I can handle that. Matthew will be perfectly fine on his own for a few days. You don't need to worry about anything. Just concentrate on helping Bates recover."

How could she respond to that? So she'd simply nodded and left Lady Mary, returning to the little room that had been provided for her by Lady Rosamund. And there she'd lain all night, staring into the darkness, overcome with turmoil and thoughts. Flashes of memories

_(her confession of love, their first kiss, her heartache over him leaving, their wedding day, their wedding night, their separation)_

had flooded her brain and overpowered her, melding into one endless movie in her head, making it impossible to differentiate between the realities of her memories and her fantasies of it, torturing her by keeping her awake. Now she walks down that ward with the shadows under her eyes darker than ever, proof of the way that their relationship affects her.

Her steps are small, slow. She wants to postpone the inevitable

_(sight of him lying there, lifeless and forlorn, the embodiment of betrayal)_

meeting between the two of them. She tries to collect herself within that time. Tries to order her thoughts, her feelings. Tries to steel herself for the distressing encounter that is about to take place.

Still, nothing can prepare her for seeing him there again. She stops short as soon as he comes into sight, heart leaping to stop the air from filtering into her lungs. It is the same first impression as the one from yesterday. She is so used to seeing him standing tall despite his cane, broad-shouldered and able to fill a room, someone with quiet strength that she can depend upon. Even in prison, when the burdens of the world had forced his shoulders to bow, she'd still been able to see the shadow of the strength that he'd once had. Now it is non-existent, has left his body like Samson's strength as soon as his locks of hair were cut away. He hasn't noticed her yet, too busy gazing into nothingness to note her silent approach. She hangs back for a few moments, trying to gear herself up for what is to come, feeling the nerves in her stomach twist and roil like snakes living in her very body. The moment turns into a minute, and she knows that she can't just stand rooted to the spot forever. So, taking a deep breath to steady herself, she takes a step forward. And another. Her ankles feel as though they have weights tied to them.

But it's still too soon when she finally reaches his bedside. The chair that she had sat in yesterday is still there, empty and pitiful. At the sound of her approach, John turns his head towards her. She can't tell what his expression is showing,

_(hope love despair longing relief?)_

there is such a myriad of emotions tumbling over his face. She stands before him awkwardly, waiting for him to make the first move in his own territory, a territory that neither of them should own.

He clearly doesn't know what to do, for his hand half-raises, then lowers again, as if he's just remembered how their last meeting ended. Instead he settles for what she assumes is a smile – it is a half-hearted quirk of the lips – and then her name issues from his throat in a thin rasp.

"Anna."

Those two syllables wobble with so much left unsaid. She can't stop herself from sinking slowly into the seat next to his bed. For a moment, all they can do is stare at each other. Their last meeting fills the air between them.

Taking a deep breath, Anna makes the next move. Her fingers tremble as they dither between clasping in her lap and reaching out for him. Inevitably, she can't stop herself from reaching out for him. She has to close her eyes against the rush of fear that

_(his wrists will be wet with blood)_

he might flinch away from her. He doesn't.

Her fingers find his, tentatively. They are warm and living. Slowly, as though fearing that she might bolt again like she did the previous day, he links their fingers together securely. Her palm kisses his. His is slick with sweat.

It is far from perfect but, for the first time since this whole ordeal started, Anna finally begins to feel at peace. There is so much to say, so much to be atoned for, but just for a few moments, she can close her eyes and pretend that everything is fine.

"Anna." She can hear the overwhelming relief in his voice as he utters her name. "I'm so glad that you're here. I thought you weren't going to come back." He has always struggled to open up to her in the past, but what does it matter now? Under such circumstances, it can't matter.

"You should know that I'd never abandon you." Oh, how that statement is loaded with such an accusing undertone. It stabs at his heart like a lethal piece of glass. He doesn't respond.

There is an undeniable rift between them. It stretches on, longer than the horizon, more omnipresent than space. Their hands may be joined, but they have never felt further apart.

Anna shifts uncomfortably in her seat. The sensation of awkwardness is new to her. Not once in their relationship have they felt so uneasy around each other. Even after her initial confession of love all those years ago,

_(back in the days when life was so simple)_

they had never been victims to awkwardness. They had still been close friends, true confidantes. It had not driven them further apart; rather, it had brought them closer together. There had been regrets and sorrow surrounding his return to Kirkbymoorside, but the situation had never been uncomfortable. There hadn't even been any awkwardness on their wedding night when

_(she'd stood before him wearing absolutely nothing, allowing him to see her completely exposed in front of him for the very first time, and his eyes had travelled over the contours of her body, cataloguing, appraising, appreciating every single inch of her)_

they had finally consummated their relationship, unsure of what to really expect.

Now, the silence is crippling. She stares at their entwined hands, trying not to let her eyes trace the bandages, those bandages that tell the tale of their world unravelling helplessly around them.

John shifts his head so that he is looking up into Anna's face. His eyes still hold a lingering trace of the darkness that has dogged them over recent months, but they are steadier than they had been yesterday. Anna raises her gaze to his. His fingers squeeze hers gently.

"Anna…" his tone is urgent. "I need you to know that I am sorry for this. I know you don't believe me, and I have no right at all to ask for your forgiveness after something as terrible as this, but I need you to know that I never meant for any of this to happen."

There is sincerity in his gaze, she is sure of that. But she can't take it in, accept it, move on, just yet. She needs time to come to terms with it, to move on in her own time.

"I still love you," she tells him in a low voice. "Nothing you ever do will make me stop loving you. But I can't even begin to forgive you for this yet. I've never felt so betrayed in my whole life. I thought you'd never give up on me, so knowing that you have…"

He makes a choked sound of protest, but she ignores him.

"I'm not telling you this to make you feel guilty all over again," she says. "But I need you to understand how much this has hurt me."

"I do understand," he says softly, resignedly. "I'm far too aware of it already. I spent the entirety of last night tossing and turning. I couldn't get you out of my head. The way that everything's gone between us is entirely my fault, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to make up for making you suffer in such a way…"

"Why did you do it?" The question from yesterday is out of her mouth before she can even think about it. "Can you just tell me that?"

He is silent again, contemplating her through those dark eyes. Finally, he shakes his head, closing his eyes against the sight of her disappointment. "I can't. Not yet."  
Yesterday she would have turned on him for responding in such a way. Today she can't even muster the strength to argue. Her shoulders simply slump from the pressure of holding everything together, and she lowers her head so that she is contemplating the sheets on his bed instead of her husband himself.

Silence dominates their little world again. She wonders what he is thinking about. Are his thoughts similar to hers, of

_(a future that they will never know)_

how they can move on from here? Or are his thoughts torturing him with a time that was, although not always much perfect, still a damned sight better than what they have to live through now? Perhaps he is thinking on times like

_(their first kiss, his lips moving gently over hers, teaching her the finer points of such a loving act, of the way that mouths work in harmony to create such a wonderful feeling of warmth)_

the ones in the early days of their courtship. Or perhaps he is recalling the

_(passion and desire of their wedding night, a natural climax to the feelings of need that had been growing between them for years)_

feelings of security and peace that only lying safely in each other's arms can bring. Either way, it has to be better than wallowing in the situation that they find themselves in now.

Without being aware of it, Anna's gaze drifts down to contemplate the gauze wrapped around her husband's wrists. Rather than the copper from yesterday, the material is now tinged with a fine pink mist, as though the white has been touched by an early morning sky.

John is gazing at her again. "What are you thinking about?" he asks her softly.

She laughs, a short, humourless sound. "Does it matter?"

"It matters."

_So why didn't it matter when you tried to kill yourself?_ she wants to say, but keeps silent. His hand is so warm in hers. It's hard to imagine that only two days ago it would've felt

_(like death)_

icy.

Instead, she asks him a question of her own. "What do you see when you think of the future?"

He is obviously taken aback by this. "What?"

She can't meet his eye. "What do you dream of?"

He mulls it over for a moment. What should he tell her? At one time he had dreamed about the happier times that were to come: of having their own little home; of their children darting about underfoot, lovingly exasperating them as they got in the way; of a long and happy married life stretching on before them. Those had been the dreams that had filled his head at the beginning of his imprisonment. But, ever since his trial and the endless days that he has spent looking at the same four walls, those dreams have faded more and more, until they can barely be recalled, like a long forgotten memory. Would it be right to tell her that

_(he doesn't have dreams any more)_

that his dreams aren't the same as they used to be?

He doesn't like lying. Lying has gotten him nowhere in the past.

_But you can lie about this. You _have_ to lie about this._

"I see us," he says carefully.

"Are we happy?"

He tries to imagine the scene, Anna

_(crying, screaming, pleading, her sobs echoing around the packed courtroom, so devastated)_

perhaps laughing in response to something he'd said, her arms warm around him, her chin resting against his chest. It is a scene that is so simple and so powerful that it makes him want to cry. Will he ever have that again? That sort of easy camaraderie and trust, a bond that has not been severed? The image isn't very strong.

Does he see them happy?

No.

But he can't tell her that. So, gathering his courage, he lies.

"Yes."

"So if your dreams are so strong, why did you give up?"

They've reached the crux of the matter. He doesn't know what to say.

Silence.

He glances into her face. There is a slight crease in her forehead. She clearly expects an answer to her question.

"I don't know," he says at last. "It's just…it was everything. The darkness. The monotony. The hopelessness. It all became too much. I was a fool."

She accepts it, but she doesn't contradict him, as she would have done in the past.

"Everything's changed, hasn't it?" He doesn't like how small his voice is.

She contemplates him for a moment. She wants to reassure him, wants to tell him that it hasn't. But she can't. Not yet.

_Will you ever be able to again?_

Her grip on his hand slackens. She wants to forgive him so much. But at the same time she doesn't. She wants him to know how much she's suffered because of him, how he's almost torn her apart. She thinks that he regrets his actions…but she doesn't know if he understands how much he's hurt her.

"Anna, what are your dreams like?"

Before now, they had been bearable. Sometimes even happy. They didn't always make it easier for her to bear…but they were enough.

She isn't sure if she'll ever have another dream that won't end with the spraying of his blood.

She opens her mouth to speak, though she isn't sure what she is going to say. Luckily, she is spared the courtesy of answering by the arrival of Nurse Collins.

"I'm afraid the visit is over, Mrs. Bates," she says briskly. "You can come back at two for the afternoon visit, if you'd like."

"Will you?" he asks her softly. His eyes are beseeching

And, suddenly, she feels so disorientated. The urge to turn on her heel and run is strong. She doesn't know if she can

_(do this anymore)_

come back and face him all over again in the afternoon.

His hand is still in hers. He squeezes her fingers with more than a little hope. There is a lump in her throat.

"Of course," she says,

_(truth or lies?)_

and stands. With an effort, he pulls himself into a sitting position, watching her expectantly. With a thrill, she realises that, if she wanted to, she could bend down and kiss him goodbye; there is not a _no touching_ policy here.

But she can't. She isn't ready for such a move just yet.

_Will you ever be again?_

Instead, she gives him a strained smile and steps away from his bed. His expression is unreadable – she can't tell if he was expecting more of a goodbye or not. Perhaps he's thinking that he doesn't deserve it, which

_(is true; he doesn't deserve it)_

wouldn't be at all surprising.

"I'll see you later," he offers tentatively.

She moves away from the bed with a guilty glance over her shoulder, unable to reply. Tears are threatening again. It is too much to take. He watches her go. He wonders if anything will ever be the same again.

* * *

**A/N:** Chapter five is already more than 4,000 words long, but I'm reluctant to give a time frame of when it'll be updated again. So just...stay tuned?


	5. The Choice Between Darkness and Light

**A/N:** I hope this is satisfactory. I've only written with Mary once before, so I don't know how well I really write her character. And hopefully the tone change towards the end of this isn't too jarring - it did need to change, and hopefully I did it justice. Please let me know your thoughts by leaving a review. :)

The chapter quote again comes from the book _Beautiful Darkness_. As I stated last chapter, I have never read it, so I'm just assuming that how I found it on the Internet is how it is displayed in the book.

* * *

_5. The Choice Between Darkness and Light_

_It's not easy to be Light when you've been Dark. It's almost too much to ask anyone_ – Kami Garcia and Margaret Stohl.

John Bates is in the grip of despair. There is nothing to live for anymore. He has counted the days, the hours, the minutes, the seconds, since Anna's last visit.

Two days, fourteen hours, sixteen minutes, thirty-one seconds. Time ticks and tocks, mocking him because

_(Anna has finally seen sense and left you here)_

he is alone and he doesn't even have Anna to help him through this dark time.

He rolls onto his side, ignoring the burning sensation in his knee. The doctor has deemed it acceptable for his bandages to be removed now that the wounds on his wrists have stopped bleeding and are beginning to heal, but John can't bring himself to care. In fact, he is

_(frustrated that he hadn't just finished the job and saved this heartache for himself)_

downright indifferent to the fact. What does it matter if he is getting better? He has lost Anna in the process.

Two whole days since she has last been to see him. She'd promised to come and see him again but

_(she broke it, just like you broke your promise to her)_

evidently it had been too much for her. He hasn't seen her since then, has had the sickening sensations of rising hope and dashing disappointment every time the visitation hours come around and she does not appear. Instead he has to content himself with watching the other more deserving souls around him talking to their loved ones, perhaps sharing a chaste embrace before parting ways. It makes the tears sting his eyes. He has lost the right to

_(her love)_

that.

The doctor has stated that he can be released in two days. Back to prison. Back to the never ending cycle of eating inedible meals and avoiding the other inmates. Back to staring at the same four walls, contemplating the delicious ways of ending things.

If he doesn't have Anna in his life, where does that leave him?

If Anna chooses not to visit him in prison (and he certainly wouldn't blame her for that decision), he will end it all, he tells himself. He will keep his sense of false hope with him until that fateful first visitation day, and if she doesn't enter the room

_(looking tired, harassed, defeated, and he feels a wave of self-loathing at the fact that she is suffering because of him, that each pointless exercise she undergoes in a desperate bid to free him is leading to absolutely nothing)_

then he will go back to his cell that night and finish things off properly.

It is a promise that he will not break.

* * *

Anna hasn't slept for two days. Whenever she lies down and closes her eyes, the image of her husband's trauma plasters itself into the darkness of her mind, refusing to let go and allow her a few snatched hours of respite. She can't cope with that image. So instead she paces around her small room in the upstairs quarters of Lady Rosamund's house, trying to keep sleep at bay, unable to escape her husband even for a moment. All she can think about is

_(his silent plea for her to come back to him, to hold him in her arms and reassure him that everything will be all right, even though they both know that things can never be the same as they once had been)_

their parting. She had promised him that she would return to him but

_(you're as bad at keeping promises as he is)_

she hadn't. So how will she ever face him again? Each hour it gets harder to. She can't bring herself to go, to put herself through the heartache all over again. She knows that if she looks at him, all she is going to be able to remember is

_(the blood spewing from his veins)_

how scared she had been. Will she ever be able to associate with him again without feeling those things?

She knows that she has to. Or at least try. He is her husband. She should stand by him.

But not today. She needs at least one more day to collect her thoughts, to come to terms with it all.

_Tomorrow,_ she promises herself. _Tomorrow you'll be strong._

It is a promise that can all too easily be broken.

* * *

She lies there on her back, arms thrown above her head, contemplating the ceiling. Something has to be done. She has never seen Anna so lost, so broken. She knows that she is missing her husband terribly. She knows that he will be missing her just as acutely. There is enough misery for them to deal with without them creating even more for themselves.

There has to be a way to sort things. Part of this is her mess, too, so she will do her utmost to make things right.

She promises herself that she'll do whatever she can. A plan starts to formulate.

* * *

Lady Mary Crawley's heels click purposefully against the tiled floor as she makes her way through the front of the hospital. She dismisses the awed looks that are shot her way as she walks along, making her way towards her destination; it is unheard of for someone of her social status to be seen in such a dingy little hospital.

At last she reaches her destination, and is greeted by a nurse. Nurse Collins, Mary presumes, the woman who has been looking after Bates' welfare.

"Milady," she says breathlessly.

Mary nods curtly. She is not here for small pleasantries and awed fawning. She is here to simply aid. Anna has done enough for her in the past. It is time that the favour was repaid.

Nurse Collins sneaks surreptitious glances over her shoulder as she leads the younger woman down the ward. Mary pretends not to notice. There is the ripple of whispers that follows her, as usual

_(because of who I am or what I've done?)_

but they don't bother her either. Her sole focus is on reaching Bates.

They reach the end of the ward, and Mary is awarded her first sight of her father's former valet. She has seen many horrific sights in her life, especially from Downton's time as a convalescent home. From soldiers with half of their faces missing to Matthew and his terrifying brush with death, Mary has seen it all. However, there is something deeply disturbing about the way that Bates looks. She has not seen him once since the day of Lavinia Swire's funeral those many many months ago. She had never really paid that much attention to him before – he had always been Anna's beau, lurking on the periphery of her vision, sometimes mentioned by her father, often by Anna, but never more prominent in her life than that – so now, seeing him in such a state, shocks her to her very core.

Bates looks visibly haggard and lost. Once a man of broad, quiet strength, he now looks weak and fragile, like

_(an old man)_

he has nothing to go on for. His hair is long and messy, and he looks as though he hasn't seen a bath for a very long time.

Is this the sight that greets Anna every time she visits him in prison? How does she do it?

He hasn't noticed their approach. He is too engrossed with staring sightlessly up above his head. The despair is coming off him in waves.

"He's been like this for days," Nurse Collins whispers conspiratorially. "The doctor says that now he is well again, he can go back to prison – we do need the beds for those with more pressing illnesses – but I'm just not sure if it's the right move. He's just so…listless."

The diagnosis sends a shiver down Mary's spine.

_What will he do if he's released in this state…?_

She lingers in the background as Nurse Collins moves forward to address the former valet.

"Mr. Bates?" she says kindly, "you have a visitor."

Even from this distance, Mary can see the hope in his eyes. "Anna?"

"No, I'm afraid it's not Mrs. Bates," she says regretfully.

"Oh." He has lost interest already. "Who is it, then?"

"It's Lady Mary Crawley."

The words hang in the air while Bates processes them. She can almost follow his train of thought

_(it's down to her that I'm here, it's down to her that Anna's gone)_

and steps forward to greet him as warmly as she can, mindful of how

_(suicidal)_

frail his emotions must be at the moment.

"Hello, Bates," she says, for she can't think of a better greeting.

"Milady," he replies, and the horror is evident on his face. She knows he is embarrassed that she should see him in such a state, such a _vulnerable_ state, and yet, after a few moments, this is overcome in favour of asking, "where's Anna?"

"I'm afraid she's not very well," she answers briskly. "So I elected to come in her place."

"That's very kind, milady," he says, "but I'd prefer it if you didn't." His eyes, brightened for the briefest instant with the hope of his wife's presence, have darkened again. They are unreadable shutters, black and hard. Mary doesn't like the look.

"Still," she says, "I'm here now. And I should like to know how you're faring for myself. I know how Papa and everyone else back home is eager for news."

He says nothing, but she knows that he

_(thinks she's only saying that, spouting meaningless words in an attempt to rally him)_

doesn't really believe her. She tries to smile encouragingly, but he merely frowns at her.

"What's wrong with Anna?"

Of course he'd want to do nothing but speak of his wife. She'd been prepared for this.

"Just a bit sick, I'm afraid. She didn't want to risk passing it on to you, so she's been keeping away. She's terribly upset that she can't be here."

"No she's not."

His reply, loaded with bitterness, takes her by surprise. She had been expecting the valet – usually so silent and compliant, to simply accept her words at face value. For a few seconds, she hesitates.

It is a second too long.

"I knew it," he says. Although his tone is quieter, there is still a startling amount of bitterness there, something she had not been expecting. In that instance, she realises how little she knows about the man in front of her. He has worked and lived within her house for more than eight years and yet, beside what Anna has told her,

_(he's such a gentleman, so lovely, can be trusted with anything)_

he is a mystery to her. Who is the man behind the valet? What did he do to make Anna fall so madly in love with him? And, more importantly,

_(who has this man become to make things so utterly wrong between them?)_

can things be that way for them again?

She knows she needs to answer him; the longer the silence stretches, the more deeply his suspicions are affirmed.

"Anna wants very much to be here," she says eventually.

Bates' smile is ugly. "You don't need to lie to me, milady. I know she's not ill. I know she doesn't want to be here. I don't blame her."

Cautiously, Mary sinks into the seat beside his bed. Her hands twist together in her lap. For all of her confidence that she was doing the right thing by coming here, she hadn't anticipated this despondent man.

_What did you expect?_ she chides herself. _Did you expect him to be full of the joys of life?_

"I'm not lying to you, Bates," she says. "Anna has been beside herself these last two days, believe me. She's not sleeping, she's not eating, and she's making mistakes all over the place. Trust me, the only thing on her mind is you. She's so worried about you."

He lifts a hand to rub hopelessly at his chin. The sound of his stubble is grating. His shirtsleeve flops down his arm, revealing the thin scars on his wrists when he puts his hands down. Thin, pink, raw. She tries not to stare at them. They represent the

_(descent into hell)_

loss of control that can happen to anyone. They make her feel uncomfortable. With an effort, she raises her eyes to his face again, although this isn't much better; never before has she seen such despair, not even in

_(Matthew)_

the casualties of the war. It is frightening. Mary suddenly has a new sense of how resilient her lady's maid is.

"Then why isn't she here?" Bates whispers. Normally so stoic, he doesn't even have the strength to put a steel mask in place for her.

"You know why."

The words hang there, swinging from a hangman's noose. Slowly, Bates' eyes find hers. They are so miserable.

"I've ruined everything, haven't I?" he says. The heartbreak in his tone is heart-rending.

She opens her mouth to

_(affirm it)_

deny it, but no words come out. He looks so lonely.

"Anna will be back," she says at last.

"What about this sorry situation gives you that impression?" He is angry now.

She remembers

_(– "I'll never love again like I love him."_

–"_Well, there you are, then. One day you'll meet someone else and you'll marry. Perhaps it will be second best, but it doesn't mean you can't have a life."_

"_I think it does, for me."_

–"_I can't think of anything but him. It's as if I were mad or ill. I suppose that's what love is, a kind of illness. When you've got it, there's just nothing else.")_

the secret conversations that the two of them have shared about love. She remembers

_(the earnest voice, the open expression on her face, a mix between pain and adoration, the burdens that she gladly bears for loving him, the pure love in her eyes that takes her breath away, makes her wonder how someone can love someone else so unconditionally, so much)_

the way that Anna had announced her feelings. Never once has she doubted the love that Anna holds in her heart.

"She loves you, Bates," she says simply. "Believe me, she loves you a great deal. More than I've seen someone love anyone else. She'll be back because she loves you and can't bear to be away from you."

He tries to process the thought. "She doesn't love me now. How can she? She should hate me for what I've done to her."

"But she doesn't, Bates. I don't think she'll ever be able to stop loving you."

He remains unconvinced. "She must be doubting." And, in a lower voice, he adds, "she _should_ be doubting."

"Doubting what?" Mary's head is filled with terrible images. Is he admitting to

_(doing everyone a favour)_

killing his wife?

Evidently he can read the question in her eyes. "I mean that she should be doubting her love, milady. I didn't kill Vera."

"Of course you didn't," she quickly reassures him. "And one day everyone will know it too."

One day. Such a vague statement. What is one day? Next week? Ten years? Long after he and Anna are both dead?

Sighing heavily, Bates pushes himself into a firmer sitting position. "Why are you really here, milady?"

The question catches her off-guard. Why is he so forthcoming? According to Anna, he is

_("the best sort of listener,")_

often silent. She supposes that the world has been turned upside down by his latest actions.

"I'm here to see how you are," she says again.

"Yes, but apart from that?" He sounds impatient, snappish.

There is no point putting it off any longer. She tells herself that, despite everything, she is still his social superior and she shouldn't feel guilty about saying the things that she needs to say. Besides, she is doing this for

_(Anna)_

his own good. He will thank her for it in the end.

"Very well," she says. "I'm here because I need to get a few things straight in my mind."

He looks wary at once, keeping silent. He is as unresponsive as she had imagined; he is not about to allow himself to walk into any cleverly concealed traps.

In the end, though, he won't have much choice in the matter.

"What I'm trying to understand," she says, "is why you could possibly want to end things the way you did when you have a wonderful girl like Anna standing by your side."

"With all due respect, milady," he answers, looking incensed that she should state such a fact so boldly, "I don't believe that that's any of your business."

"Papa is your employer and Anna is my maid. Her welfare is important to me. So I would beg to differ with you."

Bates frowns, though he does not quite dare to scowl at his social superior.

Mary leans forward. "I want to tell you something, Bates. And I want you to listen to it. You might not like hearing everything that I'm going to say, but I want you to listen to it and take it on board. It will be as hard for me to say some of these things and open up to you, but I'm doing this because it's the right thing to do. Are you willing to allow me to speak plainly with you?"

For a moment, there is silence. She can almost see the cogs in his head turning, whirring, processing her words.

This is his first test, his first challenge to choose between what is right and what is easy. Will he make the right one?

Finally, he nods. Mary breathes a sigh of relief. He has made the right choice. Now it is down to her to make him see sense.

Buoyed by her first victory, she leans forward and begins to speak. There is no preamble, no glossing things over. Just the hard facts. "The way I see it, you have two choices here, Bates. You can choose to let this darkness consume you, and let it destroy everything that exists between you and Anna. Or you can fight it. You can fight it, and help the light to win. I'm not saying it'll be easy – I won't be coy about it – it'd be easier to give in. But if you fight it, you will have Anna with you every step of the way. She won't let you give up. And you won't lose her. I don't know much about you, Bates, but I think I know you well enough to assume that losing Anna is the last thing that you want."

He is silent, shocked that Lady Mary has dared to speak to him in such a way, so openly and matter-of-factly. He doesn't like the facts. They're cold and business-like. And yet he knows that she speaks the truth. And she is right: he'd do anything in his power to stop himself from losing Anna. Haven't these last two days proved that he can't bear to think about her absent from his life? Hasn't he, despite telling himself that she'd be better off without him, yearned for her every minute of every day?

Yes, he'd do anything in his power to keep her by his side.

_So why don't you?_

The question repeats itself over and over in his mind like a mantra.

_Because Anna will be better off without you, will have a better life if you weren't in it ruining it for her…_

Back to square one.

As though she can read his thoughts, Mary begins to speak again. "I'm sure you've heard it a thousand times before, and I've already said it once today, but I shall repeat it: Anna loves you more than I've ever seen another woman love a man. I know just by looking at her that she'd do anything to make you happy. Do you think she's stood by you all this time for you to give up on your relationship?"

She is repeating things that he already knows.

Mary keeps pushing. "Anna doesn't like to talk about the two of you much, but I know her well enough to know that she's hurting so much. You're her husband. You're supposed to support her no matter what. So support her. Tell her everything – how you're feeling, what you're experiencing – and let her help you through this. Open up to her."

Bates looks torn. He is wavering, Mary can sense it.

"I'll say something now that I probably shouldn't. But I think it's important that you hear it. As you know, many years ago, before the war, I had a chance to marry Matthew. I'm sure all of the servants have their own theories as to why the engagement didn't come off. But I shall tell you the truth here today: it was because I was scared. There were so many possibilities that could go wrong. Mama was expecting. Matthew's inheritance was in question. I loved him…but at the time I wasn't sure if I loved him _enough_. When Matthew came to call it off, I was devastated. I realised at that point that I _did_ love him enough to risk everything. But by then it was too late. I had to live with myself knowing that I had caused both of us unnecessary heartache and pain. And I can see that you're doing the same now. Anna has tried so hard to be strong for both of you, but there's only so much more she can take before she breaks completely, and by then it will be too late to fix her. I see her every day, Bates. I see what she's going through. But she never gives up on you. So don't you give up on her. I was given a second chance with Matthew to make things right. Anna is giving you a second chance right now. Don't squander it."

_Second chance?_ John thinks sardonically to himself. _Think fifth chance. One hundredth chance._

But Mary has struck a chord with him. He thinks back to just a few days ago,

_("I still love you…Nothing you ever do will make me stop loving you.")_

when she'd declared that she still loved him, even after everything he's done to her. He knows that as long as his heart beats, it will beat only for her. And he knows that hers will only ever beat for him.

Lady Mary had found redemption despite the odds. Mr. Matthew had still wanted her, had taken her back, had married her. Anna has often mentioned on her visits to him that the two of them are enjoying married life very much. He never likes to hear about their happiness because

_(it makes him jealous, resentful)_

it only makes his situation harder to bear.

Can he also be awarded yet another chance?

"You have the choice between the darkness and the light," Mary tells him again. "Make the right choice, Bates."

He closes his eyes, lets flashes of their life flash before his eyes,

_(her kissing him taking his breath away the sunny smile on her face as she looked at him the gentle touch of her fingers on his arm how alive she'd looked on their wedding day feeling her tangled around him on their wedding night bare skin against bare skin finally man and wife in every sense of the word)_

soothing him. Yes, he has a choice. But is a difficult choice to make. Returning to the light will be the most painful experience of his life. Asking him to choose such a torturous path is almost too much to ask anyone.

Almost.

In his head, he hears Anna's voice

_(And I love you. For richer, for poorer, for better, for worse)_

and, somehow, that is all the reassurance he needs. Yes, he can do this. Sometimes he might stumble, and sometimes she might lag behind, but if they can face it together as a united front instead of two halves trying to fit as a whole, they can overcome this. He doesn't know how, but they will.

No matter is merely black and white. There are so many shades of grey that muddy the space between. And yet, in some respects, this issue is black and white. He has been complicating it much more than it needs.

Ordinarily, he would have been content giving up, giving in, letting life sweep him away and leave him lost in the darkness. But Anna is his sunlight, the one person he needs to continue living. And he owes her the courtesy of at least trying. She has done so much for him over the last eight years. Braver women than her would have deserted him a long time ago, casting him aside and making happy, uncomplicated lives for themselves. But she has stood loyally by his side, her head never once turned by more handsome, more capable men.

All at once he is overcome with how

_(poorly you've treated her Bates, she's given you the world and you've given her nothing but pain in return)_

much he has underappreciated her. Now, more than ever, she deserves his very best.

He needs to show her that he can be the man she needs.

Lady Mary sees the transformation in his face, the explosion of emotions that passes over his features. Fear, guilt…and, finally, acceptance. She breathes an internal sigh of relief. She has done it.

Bates looks towards her again. There is a new light in his eyes. Silent understanding passes between them, an acknowledgement that, despite their differences, they are more alike than they could have previously known.

Mary fumbles with the little bag that she has brought with her, withdrawing a pen and paper. She holds it out to the former valet.

"Here you go," she says. "Write everything down, Bates. Seal it. I'll pass it on to Anna. Let her know everything. If you're serious about letting her know that you intend to make things right, write everything down."

He nods, taking it from her with hands that tremble just perceptively. Mary holds her breath for a second while he sits poised with the pen hovering over the blank white canvas, formulating and dismissing sentences in his head. And, finally, painfully slowly, he begins to write. Mary feels a lightness come over her. Slowly, things are returning to the way that they ought to be.

She settles back in her seat, focuses her eyes ahead, and waits for him to finish.

* * *

She doesn't know how much time has passed before she hears the rustle of the sheets of paper and a thankful sigh from Bates' lips. She looks up. He seems pleased, albeit a little strained. When he sees her observing him, he offers her a weak smile. She returns it.

"You've finished?" she asks.

He nods, folding the paper neatly and sliding into the envelope that she has brought with her. "Yes, milady. I have."

She watches as he turns the envelope back over and writes _Anna_ in a long, careful cursive. It is almost heart-breaking to see the careful concentration on his face as he scribes that one word with more love and attention than she has ever seen before. When he has finished, he turns back to her and holds it out to her.

"Will you give it to her?" he asks.

"Of course I will, Bates. I'll give it to her as soon as I get back."

He nods, satisfied with her answer. They sit in silence for a few moments after that, but the silence is not uncomfortable. Mary thinks that the silence is the most comfortable one she has ever known. There is a peace to Bates that hadn't been present at the start of her visit. It is as though the darkness that has been plaguing him has already started to fade away into the background. Perhaps outside influence was all he needed. Anna is an absolute saint for standing by him, but perhaps he has come to take her for granted too much to truly pay attention to. Perhaps he simply needed Anna to take a stand of her own and show him how mistakes could shape a life for the worse.

She hopes that now everything can return to how it once was. There will be difficult times ahead – after all, Bates will be returning to prison in just a couple of days – but she hopes that his restored faith will be enough to keep his head above the water. And it will be wonderful relief to see Anna smiling – truly smiling – again.

"Excuse me, milady."

Both Mary and John start at the sound of the voice behind them. Nurse Collins is standing there, still looking awed and humble.

"Yes?" Mary says, arching an eyebrow.

"Beg pardon, milady, but I'm afraid this morning's visitations are over."

"Goodness, is that the time?" Mary says, surprised. "I didn't realise it had passed so quickly!"

The nurse dips her head, then backs away quickly to give them some privacy while they say their goodbyes.

Mary turns back to John, giving him a measured look. "Well, Bates, thank you for seeing me."

"Thank you, milady," he says sincerely.

She waves it away. "It was nothing."

He smiles, a genuine one. It transforms his face. She thinks that

_(this is the man who Anna fell in love with)_

he looks years younger, despite the way that prison has warped him.

"Good luck with everything," she says instead. "I'll let Papa and everyone know that you're on the mend and perfectly fine, and I'll see you when you're released. Because you _will_ be released, Bates. You have Anna on your side. Don't lose hope again."

"I won't, my lady."

She nods, rises from her seat. Nothing more needs to be said. The visit is over. The unforgiving barriers that keep their social classes apart re-erect themselves. She has accomplished her mission. She feels liberated.

"Milady?"

Mary turns around at the last instant. "Yes? What is it?"

Bates' face is solemn. "There's one thing that I would like to do, if you could possibly arrange it. It's a little delicate..."

"Name it, Bates. It's yours."

Now he looks nervous, embarrassed. Is this the look that Anna fell for all those years ago?

He makes his request.

She tells him that it can be done.

* * *

When she reaches her Aunt Rosamund's house, Mary dashes up the stairs towards the room that Anna is using. She knocks once, impatiently, then throws the door open. Anna, who is sitting by the window, gazing listlessly out of it, starts at once, springing to her feet. She has changed back into her nightclothes.

"Milady?" she questions, looking mortified at being caught in such a state of dress, "I wasn't expecting you back yet! I thought your meeting was supposed to last until tea!"

"Something came up," Mary replies, and thrusts the envelope containing Bates' later towards her.

Anna's delicate eyebrows rise in confusion as she stares quizzically at it. "What's that?"

"It's for you."

"For me?" Anna's eyebrows lower into a frown. "Who'd be writing to me?"

There's no way of relating the news gently. "I went to see Bates. He sent it for you."

Anna's shackles are up at once. "What?"

Mary continues to hold the letter out to her. "Read it, Anna. Please."

She eyes it anxiously for a moment longer, then slowly reaches out for it. Her fingers grasp at it, taking it gently out of Mary's hand. She holds it between her thumb and forefinger, as though she fears that it will catch fire without warning. She dithers then, obviously torn between wanting to get her fill of her husband in any way she can and ignoring it in favour of punishing him. "Why did you go and see him, milady?"

She shrugs, slightly irritated that Anna isn't ripping over the envelope and devouring the contents inside it. "Does it matter?"

"It matters right now, milady," she says softly.

Mary softens. "I went because I wanted to see him for myself. And I wanted to try and help you."

"Why?" Anna furrows her eyebrows.

She pauses, wondering how to answer, then settles for

_(because it is just a small token of thanking you for loyalty that I can never repay)_

"Because you both deserve it."

Anna's smile is disquieting, rueful. "Do we? Perhaps this is God's way of telling us that we don't."

"Don't talk like that." Mary's tone is harsher than she intended. She hadn't bargained on having to pull Anna up from the depths of despair as well. "Just read the letter."

Slowly, Anna nods, then tentatively prises it open. The air is thick as she pulls out the sheaves of paper, all written in her husband's meticulous scrawl.

She begins to read.

Her hand flies up to her mouth. Tears fill her eyes. She blinks. They fall. She looks up at Mary.

The world holds its breath. Anna's reaction to this letter

_(joy, anger, indifference?)_

is keeping the world balancing on a knife edge.

Anna smiles.

* * *

Later, when John is sitting up and clumsily feeding himself some putrid soup, he glances up to find Anna standing at the end of his bed. He starts at once, having been so engrossed in his soup that he hadn't even noticed her arrival, and promptly spills his spoonful of soup down his hospital clothes. She giggles, a fragile sound, but it warms his heart. He can't remember the last time that he heard such a melodious sound.

"Hello." It is the silliest way to greet her of all, but she merely smiles at him. It is more of a shadow than the real thing, but he'll take what he can for now, and vows that one day he'll make it shine again.

"Hello," she echoes, moving forward to take her place at the side of his bed. Without preamble, her hand – ungloved, he notices, and the left – snakes forward and grasps at his. She holds it tightly. He holds hers just as tightly, rubbing his thumb over her wedding band, his eyes crinkling with a genuine smile.

"Lady Mary told you?" he says hoarsely. He blinks, and there are tears.

She squeezes his fingers. It is all the answer he needs.

Still, she hastens to answer. "Yes. She told me."

A moment's pause. "I'm not asking for your forgiveness yet, Anna. I don't deserve it. But I'm so pleased that you're here again. When I thought you weren't coming back…"

She shushes him quickly, bringing his hand up to her mouth. Her lips are soft against his rough skin. He sighs and closes his eyes at the sensation. He can't remember a simpler pleasure. She doesn't speak when she pulls his hand away from her mouth, but she doesn't need to. The soft light in her eyes is enough to let him know that, despite everything that has passed, despite everything he has done, she is truly on the road to forgiving him.

He doesn't deserve it. But he will strive to be worthy of it.

For a long time, no words are exchanged. The silence is not awkward, however. Instead it is comfortable and relaxed, a sharp contrast to the last visit. John finds that he cannot get enough of drinking in the sight of her, her lightness; the way that lovely wisps of blonde hair fall from beneath her hat, the sunny outfit that she has chosen for herself, made all the more beautiful by her blue eyes. Anna obviously feels his eyes on her, for she has dropped her gaze to contemplate the hand she is still holding within hers. He detects a rosy hue on her cheeks. It is a rare and lovely sight. Despite the terrible circumstances, he can't help smiling. It is the brightest and most honest smile he has given in months. When Anna glances up to see it, it takes her breath away.

At that moment, she makes her decision.

For the last few minutes she has been fighting the urge to lean up and kiss him. On some level she is afraid that

_(it will bring back the memories of the last time they shared such an intimate embrace)_

neither of them are ready for it yet, but at the same time she can't help but crave it. They have gone without it for so long. In a place where touching is permitted between the two of them, why shouldn't they take advantage of it?

And how can she be hesitating now, with him looking at her in such an adoring manner?

She stands resolutely, takes his face between her hands. His gaze moves upwards to meet hers. It is steady and clear. The darkness that had plagued it is all but gone now. It is a welcome sight. Her palms graze his jaw. She doesn't care that his stubble is scratchy and thick. All that matters is

_(the fact that she can kiss him – Lord, she need to kiss him so much)_

reconnecting on the most basic of levels. Her lips quiver with anticipation, and she darts out her tongue to moisten them. And then she leans down and presses her mouth against his, sighing in satisfaction as she allows herself to take pleasure in the contact that she has missed so much over the last long, hard months. His stubble is rough against her face, but she finds that she does not mind. It is a new experience for her, and she finds that she actually likes it. His lips are pleasantly warm, if a little dry, and she takes it upon herself to wet them for him, running her tongue over them, shivering in gratification at the sensations. She feels as if she can't close her eyes, scared that he will disappear if she does, and she realises that he is of the same mind. She lets them drift closed then, comforted by this, and the first of her tears begin to fall. They mingle with his own, and he can't tell which are hers and which are his as they drip down his cheeks. His left hand comes up tentatively to curl at the nape of her neck, bringing her closer to him. He is such a state, and he cannot comprehend how she could ever want to kiss him when he looks and smells the way he does, but it doesn't matter.

All that matters is

_(Anna still wanting him)_

the here and now. Usually, he is shy of public displays of affection, preferring to allow Anna to know his feelings only in private, away from the prying eyes of the world but, as she begins to slip her tongue inside his mouth, he finds that he does not care. The whole world can watch him. He loves Anna, and he wants to show the world that.

At last they break apart. Anna rests her forehead against his, her hands sliding to his shoulders. They gaze into each other's eyes. They stay like that. The rest of the world can go on. For the briefest of instances, time is kind to them. Time stops.

But it can never last for long. They hear the sound of someone clearing their throat behind them, and Anna pulls back, flushing a little at the thought of being caught in such an intimate state.

Nurse Collins stands behind them, looking awkward and apologetic. Anna doesn't know how long she'd been standing there before she decided to interrupt. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Bates, but the visitations for tonight are over."

Anna nods. "I'll be one moment."

Nurse Collins nods in reply, then steps away, leaving them to say their goodbyes in relative privacy.

She kisses him once more, slowly, lingeringly. He lets her set the pace, feeling a pang of loss once she parts from him. She smiles tremulously, obviously reading his expression.

"I love you," she says. His heart leaps. The honesty in her voice is overwhelming.

"I love you too," he murmurs in reply.

Her smile brightens. She desperately wants to lean in and kiss him again, but instead she settles for running a hand lovingly through his hair. Aware that she is taking a long time with her goodbye, she forces herself to pull away and takes a few steps back from the bed.

It is a complete mirror of the end of her last visit to him. John's voice is soft as he asks her whether she'll visit him again tomorrow.

"Of course," she says. It's

_(the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth)_

the only answer she can give him. Her smile is genuine. His expression is open and loving – she feels her heart swell at the look. She knows that he's thinking about

_(the happy times, the good times)_

what is to come, and how they need to face it.

"I'll see you later," he says. There is no trepidation this time.

"I'll be back," she promises.

This time, she means it.

* * *

**A/N:** Hopefully that didn't feel too rushed, and the interactions between Mary and Bates were believable. Your opinions really are key; I want to make sure it feels plausible!

Just one more chapter to go now. I've written 3,000 words of it at the moment, but I'm not sure how long it's going to end up being, so I can't make any promises that the next chapter will be up within the week.


	6. Let the Light Prevail

**A/N:** And here it is, the sixth and final chapter. I apologise profusely for its length - it seems very long-winded and not a lot happens, but I think it's quite important that it remains as it is. And there doesn't seem to be a suitable place to chop it into another chapter, so I've left it as a whole.

I'm not sure if this chapter ended up how I wanted it to be. This general ending was what I had in mind right from the beginning, even if I was a little uncertain about doing it this way. I would be very grateful, therefore, to hear your opinions on it.

This chapter's quote comes from Bram Stoker's _Dracula_, and the "tangled web" quote comes from Sir Walter Scott's_ Marmion_.

(There is a sex warning for this chapter, but I don't think it's explicit enough to up the rating. Though of course you'll be better judges of that than I.)

* * *

_6. Let the Light Prevail_

_There are darknesses in life and there are lights, and you are one of the lights, the light of all lights_ – Bram Stoker.

Anna sits at the vanity, nervously running a brush through her hair in order to give her hands something to do. She scrutinises herself in the mirror, wanting to look as perfect as she possibly can in this moment. She sighs when she sees the flaws. The dark shadows. The too pale skin. The deepening lines, adding years to her. The flaws are many.

There is a knock on the door. Her heart leaps. Perhaps it is finally time. She has been waiting for this moment for most of the day. Now that it is finally upon her, her emotions run unchecked. Excitement. Nervousness. And possibly even a little bit of fear.

She stands on shaky legs and moves towards the door. Her heart beats hard. She opens it.

It is not the sight she had been expecting to look upon.

It is a prison guard, dressed in his absolute best. He seems grim, and more than a little put-out, opening his mouth without preamble. "I take it you understand the terms for this?"

She is already feeling a little deflated. "Yes, I do."

He nods curtly. "Very well. I will be stationed out here all night. Don't try any stupid romantic schemes of breaking free and escaping together. Because we would find you, and it wouldn't end prettily."

"We won't," she says. She tries not to be too angry at him – after all, he can't be relishing the prospect of sitting awake all night on a wooden little chair with nothing to do – but when she thinks of the way that John is probably treated inside those prison walls, she finds that it's hard not to be livid at his absolutely contemptible nature. "Anyway, where _is_ my husband?"

The guard's smile is crooked and nasty. "Oh, he's in the house. He'll be along soon enough. You're to stay in here."

Without another word, she closes the door in his face and moves back to the vanity. She might as well tidy her things up while she waits. She is too full of nervous energy to simply sit there waiting, no matter how much she might want to. Her feelings are all over the place, but she hasn't got the time to sort them now.

She isn't aware of how much time passes before she hears another knock at the door. She looks up. This time, the door opens without her having to move. Her heart leaps.

John stands in the doorway. He doesn't fill it like he used to back at Downton, before this whole ordeal started, but Anna can't help but shiver at his presence. He looks a different man as he stands before her, a man completely separate from the one whom she'd visited in the hospital. He has taken the time to freshen himself up for her. His face, thinner than it once was, is clean shaven and smooth. He has given his hair a good wash; it hangs loose, several strands flopping over his forehead, still longer than she is used to, but clean and thick. He has also been able to give himself a good scrub in the bath, kindly loaned out to him by Lady Rosamund. Anna is transfixed by him. It is the first time that she's seen him all day; she had not been permitted to visit him in the hospital earlier, having been told that the day would be spent assessing his health in order to make sure that he really was fit for release. Even though he'd shyly told her just yesterday about the way that they would be spending the night together, she had not been allowed to escort him back to Lady Rosamund's London house with the guard. Instead, she had been forced to while her day away here, alternating between reading his letter and rearranging the things in the room that they had been given, wanting everything to be perfect for his arrival. And despite the fact that he'd arrived more than an hour ago, she had been forbidden to greet him, had been told that she had to wait for him to come to her. _Precautionary measures,_ the guard had explained mockingly. It had taken him long enough to make his way to her, but none of it matters now.

Slowly, he hobbles into the room. His gait is stiff and painful and slow. He hasn't been given his cane back for this one night, so he has to make do with shambling slowly everywhere he moves.

Thankfully, he won't be moving anywhere else tonight. This night is theirs and theirs alone, with a lot of help from Lord Grantham and his influential powers, and John himself, who had been the one to overcome his embarrassment and the rigid confines of propriety in order to ask Lady Mary Crawley if she thought that there might be a way that he could spend a few hours completely alone with his wife. Anna can scarcely believe that such a request has ever been honoured by the prison officials. But money speaks, John had told her sardonically just the day before, and she knows he is right; none of this would be happening if Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham, hadn't insisted that John Bates be allowed one night of recuperation outside both Pentonville Prison and the hospital in the company of his wife at the discretion of the prison officials and offered a rather large sum of money as payment for the troubles. Consequently, no resistance to the unorthodox demand had been made. So, much to the chagrin of the poor prison guard who has been lumbered with the tedious task of staring at a patterned tapestry all night long, John and Anna Bates have been granted this evening together.

No words are spoken as John slowly crosses the room to his wife's side. She opens her arms for him, and he falls into them, leaning heavily against her, breathing hard with the pain that his leg is giving him. She presses her nose into his neck, draws in the clean smell of soap and shaving cream. They stay like that for several seconds, before John pulls away gently and peers into her face. He looks so serious. For a moment, she thinks that he's going to

_(change his mind)_

say something that she doesn't want to hear, but all he does is lower his head to press his lips against hers. This luxury of simply being together without anyone watching them, no matter how brief, sets a fire alight deep in her stomach.

They part, inhaling each other's breaths, resting their foreheads together. Anna knows that the peace won't last because

_(she needs to feel him against her right now, exposed in every way)_

they have other matters to take care of. Slowly, keeping eye contact with him so that he cannot mistake her meaning, she moves her hands to the hem of her nightgown, preparing to pull it over her head. His hands move out and catch her wrists gently. She pauses.

"Anna," his voice is thick, "please don't feel like you have an obligation to do anything just because we've been given this night together. I'd hate for you to think that I expected anything of you. I want to spend the night with you on _your_ terms, whatever they may be."

She feels

_(like it's their wedding night all over again, a complete replica of the way that he'd stood before her and uttered those very same words to her that night)_

an overwhelming love for him as he makes his statement. How could things between them have gotten so bad when they both feel so strongly for each other?

"Believe me," she says, "I'm not seeing this as an obligation. I want this, John. I want to make love with you. I want to have the memories of another night to get me through all the ones that are to come."

His hand strokes hers tenderly to soften the blow of his next words. "It would be dangerous for us."

"Dangerous? How can any expression of our love be dangerous? Don't be silly."

"I'm not being silly," he tells her gently. "I'm being practical. The only people who know about this night are the prison officials, Lord Grantham and the people under this roof. If we were to…make love, then what would happen if you fell pregnant?"

Oh God, to be graced with his child. To always have that little piece of him with her, even if they are miles apart. It would bring her such comfort, such peace. She can't think of anything better. "What do you mean, what would happen? All I know is that it would be one of the happiest moments of my life if you gifted me with our child tonight."

He shakes his head. "Anna, think about what people would say."

She pauses. She knows what people would say,

_(a woman of easy virtues, a woman with no respect for her wedding vows, even if her husband is in prison, a dirty whore)_

but she can't bring herself to worry in the slightest. So what if people talk about her? None of that would matter if she was carrying her husband's child within her body.

"I don't care," she reassures him. "If it happened, so be it. Let people say what they like."

He closes his eyes,

_(imagines the jeers and the jibes that would plague him if Anna came to visit him, round and glowing)_

thinks of

_ (the bawdy comments about her virtue that he would have to endure listening to, the crass remarks from the men who would say that they wondered if she worked for free)_

how seeing her pregnant would make him feel. It would be a beautiful experience, for sure, but he doesn't want that beauty to be tampered with the ugliness of men who don't know any better. He doesn't want a child of theirs to be sneered at, to be seen as a bastard – or worse. He doesn't want either of them to be shunned by society with rumours that are not true.

"I don't want to leave you in that situation," he tells her. "I don't want people at Downton to talk about you. And I don't want to leave you to face something as huge as that alone. I know that his lordship and the others would ensure that you were cared for, but it is my duty to provide for you and our family. I can't face knowing that I wouldn't be able to do that because I'll be rotting in a prison cell."

"Don't talk like that," she says at once. "I can't bear thinking about it."

He kisses her softly, just the once. "It's the truth. And tonight is all about honesty for me. There are so many things I need to say, things I need to atone for. Tonight, I will try to do that to the best of my ability."

She stares at him for a moment, silent. And then she resumes her previous task of hitching her nightgown up over her body. She hears the sharp intake of breath

_(acceptance or deferment?)_

from her husband, and keeps her eyes firmly on him as she drops it to the floor in front of her. She is standing in nothing but her undergarments. She holds her head high as his gaze sweeps over her. She isn't accustomed to being scrutinised in such a way, but at the same time, she finds it alluring. Arousing.

"Whatever happens happens," she tells him firmly. "I will not be denied my right to know you as my husband because of something that might not happen anyway."

"I love you," he says. "No matter what happens from this point onwards, never forget that."

"I won't," she says, "if you don't give me reason to forget it again."

He shakes his head. "Never, Anna. I promise you."

She holds her breath for a moment. And she sighs with relief when, slowly, cautiously, he begins to push his braces from his shoulders. He is convinced.

"There is so much I need to make amends for tonight," he says softly. She watches, hypnotised, as he flicks the buttons on his shirt open. Inch by inch, her husband's chest is revealed to her, broad and hairy, and her breathing accelerates at the sight of it. He slides it from his shoulders and lets it drop to the floor, then leans forward and presses himself against her. Anna gasps at the feel of his wiry chest hair moving subtly against her own soft skin, and she is taken back to

_(the way he had pressed against her all that time ago, the exquisite sensations of newness almost driving her to madness, that first bit of naked contact between them)_

their wedding night. The emotions that she'd felt that night

_(love desire nervousness embarrassment joy)_

well up inside her now. She leans up, wraps her arms around his neck. She kisses his chin, delighting in the smooth skin that she is so used to. He lifts his hands and cups her face between them. The darkness in his eyes has faded. It gives her hope all over again.

"You're sure you want this?" he asks a final time.

She smiles at him. It lights up his world. "I'm sure. Trust me."

He nods, links their fingers together. He kisses her a final time, leads her over to the bed. Her heart is hammering fast. She feels a stab of sadness, even amongst the joy. They have only ever made love in beds that don't belong to them, in secret trysts in the middle of the night.

Will things ever be different for them?

She puts the thought out of her mind when John takes her by the waist and lowers her onto the bed. She sees him grimace in pain as his knee – now so temperamental without the support of his cane – protests against being leaned on, but he bears it, hovering over her with earnest brown eyes.

"You must tell me if you want me to stop," he implores.

She arches against him. "I don't want you to stop. Make love to me."

With those four words, he is lost, falling towards her blinding light.

* * *

They make love in a way that Anna hadn't been expecting. John is so gentle with her, treating her as though she is glass that might crack at any given moment. In some ways, she _is_ that fragile. Their relationship hangs by a thread. She will always love him, and his letter to her just a couple of days ago began the long and slow process of healing them. But there is still so far to go, and the slightest upset could send them spiralling back down to the unforgiving depths of the darkness. She clings to him through it all. The candles that have been lit to keep the darkness at bay flicker across his features. She can't keep her hands still. They travel swiftly over his bare back, delighting in the thin sheen of sweat forming there. They run through his hair, mussing it thoroughly. They touch the contours of his face, enamoured by the fact that they can touch him so openly. Her gold wedding ring

_(as a symbol of all that we promise and all that we share)_

glints and glimmers in the candlelight, the tarnished colours reflecting the light. Anna finds that she can't stop staring at it, entranced by the fact that it is _her_ hand on her husband's shoulder, _her_ hand sporting the ring. On their wedding night, the ring had been regrettably absent due to their desire of making sure that they didn't slip up and give the game away, but now, seeing it there on her finger as her husband makes love to her, Anna is filled with a new sense of belonging. It heightens her pleasure further. It's affecting John too. One of his hands snakes up to grasp her wrist gently, and then he twines their fingers together. He groans aloud, unashamed, as he feels the warm metal pressing against his hand. She feels him quiver. He brings her hand up to his mouth now, kissing that band, over and over and over. The attention that he is giving it makes her shudder beneath him.

She realises that he is speaking between those kisses,

_(I love you I'm sorry everything will be all right I promise to never lose hope again you are my one light Anna Anna Anna)_

his voice low and fervent, but she can barely discern the words over the loud whooshing of her blood in her head. Instead, she holds onto him, opening herself in a way that no one else will ever know. His gentleness is making her head spin. The rock of his hips against hers is irresistible. She's sure that if she stretched out her fingers, she would reach Heaven. There is so much pleasure. It's all that she knows. John is still whispering. His breath is hot. It makes her shiver. He breathes one last thing into her ear,

_(Anna, you feel incredible)_

and she is undone. It is the greatest feeling that she has ever experienced. Her cries are loud, heedless of the fact that there is a guard sitting right outside their door, heedless of the fact that they are not so very far away from Lady Mary. She trembles in his arms. She loses all sense of direction. All she is aware of is her husband's body pressed against hers, his weight warm and heavy and naked. When she has the strength to do so, she looks up into his face. His expression takes her breath away. She has never seen him looking more devoted.

"I love you," he says. It is raw, honest.

She answers him in kisses. He begins to move again. Her breath catches in her throat. She trembles with the after-effects of her end. His face is beautiful. He can barely keep steady. She knows he is close to finishing.

It comes in a rush of tightening limbs and incoherent noises. He slides down on top of her. His breathing is harsh. His head is against her chest. It feels wonderful. She runs her hands through his hair in a slow arc. It soothes him. She kisses him there. He doesn't seem to want to move. She doesn't mind.

They lay like that for a while, until he has the strength to lift his weight from her. She follows him at once, not able to bear the thought of being without him for even a single second. He wraps her in his arms. She presses her face against his chest. She breathes in his scent. It is so comforting.

A few minutes later, John pushes her away from him with an alarmed question. "Anna? What's wrong?"

She hadn't even realised she'd been crying until she feels his fingers so gentle against her face. She glances down and sees the little droplets she has left clinging to his chest hair.

"Anna?"

The barriers break then, and before she knows it, she is sobbing uncontrollably. She has a chance to see the bewildered expression on her husband's face before he pulls her back against him. She complies willingly, body heaving. She doesn't even know why she's crying. All she can think about is

_(his arms around her, his voice whispering in her ear, how perfect it all is, how right it feels to have him so intimately pressed against her, and how in the morning it will be gone gone gone)_

how this night won't last; when it ends, they will be forced apart once more. She doesn't want to contemplate it. She wants this moment to be frozen in time, for it to never pass.

She can hear his voice above her, muffled against her hair. His hands are moving up and down her back in what she assumes is a soothing gesture. It doesn't feel soothing. It only makes her cry harder. She feels his lips against her temple. It warms her, but it doesn't pacify her.

Cautiously, he eases her away from him and peers worriedly into her face. "Anna, what's brought this on?"

She sniffs hard, attempting to control herself. A few more tears spill down her cheeks. He brushes them away with the tender pad of his thumb.

"You can tell me," he encourages her gently. "It'll make you feel better. And I'd do anything to make sure you feel better. You know that, don't you?"

All at once, she is reminded of

_(sitting opposite him, face earnest, so earnest, so full of love for him, her eyes boring into his, her voice so soft as she asks, "you won't give up, will you?"_

"_I won't give up."_

_The plaintive love on her face, in her voice. "You promise?"_

"_I promise.")_

the two of them sitting across from each other in the prison's meeting room, giving and receiving promises of trust and hope. More tears spill.

He leans down, kisses them away. His lips are so warm, if a little chapped. She doesn't know if she could love him more, even with everything that he's done to her over the last week. Her arms wrap themselves around his neck. She draws him closer. His body heat calms her.

"Anna, I need you to tell me what's wrong," John says, pulling away from her at last. His touch is so gentle. Lying like this, she can almost believe that it is just an ordinary night for them. But it's not. She presses her forehead hard against his chin.

And she begins to speak.

"John, I need you to promise me something."

His grip on her tightens. "Anything, Anna. Whatever you want, it's yours."

_("You won't give up, will you?"_

"_I won't give up."_

"_You promise?"_

"_I promise.")_

"I want you to truly promise me, no matter what, that you won't give up on hope again. I don't think I could survive going through this all over again. It would destroy me if I ever had to do it another time."

He presses a fierce kiss against her hairline. His arms around her are so tight, so reassuring. She knows that he is

_(thinking about what a terrible terrible husband he is for getting her into such a state in the first place)_

wracking himself with self-loathing. But, instead of making a remark that would surely make her want to defend him, he nudges her chin until she is forced to look into his face. His eyes are serious. She feels like they are staring into her very soul.

"I swear to you, Anna Bates," he murmurs, "that I will never do anything that will cause you such pain ever again. I promise you."

It is as much as she can ever hope for. Slowly, she leans up and kisses him. He responds. When it is over, she moves her head so that it is resting against his shoulder. He holds her close. She turns her head so that it is pressed right into his neck. She is as close as possible to him. His scent overwhelms her senses. It makes her dizzy. She wants to breathe him in like this for eternity.

John enjoys the feeling of her hair tickling his cheek. Her breath breezes against his neck. His hand splays against her hip. He can tell she has lost weight. But he won't torment himself with that tonight. Tonight is about making things right. The silence stretches on. It is comfortable. But John needs to break it.

"Anna?" he says quietly at last. She doesn't respond for a moment. He thinks that perhaps she has drifted off to sleep in his arms.

But she answers him. "Yes?"

He doesn't shift so that he can look into her face. He likes holding her this way. "I just wanted to explain everything to you."

Her voice is muffled as she snuggles more firmly into his neck. "You don't have to do that, John. Your letter explained enough."

He shakes his head with a little difficulty. "No, it didn't. I owe it to you to tell you everything myself."

"I've told you, you don't have to."

"But I want to. You have a right to know everything."

She accepts this. John is noble. He likes to torture himself. Nothing will ever change that. And she likes listening to his voice. She can feel it vibrating against the side of his throat. She likes the sensation.

John takes her silence as consent to continue. He leans his cheek against her hair. "Has Lady Mary told you anything about the visit?"

"No." Anna's voice is muffled. Her lips brush against his skin. "She just gave me the letter. That was it. I didn't really want to press her for more than just the basics."

"Well, she gave me some home truths. Truths about regrets and past mistakes. She told me quite plainly that I had a choice to make. I could either give in and lose everything, or I could fight and have you right by my side. And I knew that, no matter what, I could never live without you."

She turns her head just slightly, and John brushes the hair from her face, smiling gently.

"I was a fool," he continues. "I thought that I was freeing you by taking my life, but now I know differently."

She snuggles more firmly into him, holding him tight. "You _should_ know differently, John Bates. You are my main reason for living. I don't think I could go on if I knew you weren't here."

He tightens his hold on her. "Don't say that, Anna."

"Why not?" She pushes up from his chest so that she can peer into his face. Her eyes are puffy and bloodshot. "It's the truth."

"But you're so young. You could meet someone else, marry again, have a proper family."

She shakes her head vehemently. The unspoken words

_(Forget me and be happy, please._

_I couldn't. Not ever.)_

hang between them. He can't argue with her. She is too strong-willed for that.

Instead he carries on with his story, his fingers meandering through her hair. It falls down and tickles his chest. "So when Lady Mary asked me to write everything down, I knew I had to. I've never been very good at expressing myself aloud, so I thought that if I could write it down like Lady Mary suggested, I could make you see that I truly was sorry for everything that had happened."

"When Lady Mary first handed me that letter, I was terrified," she confesses. There were so many things running through my head, each scarier than the last. I couldn't help thinking, _what if I've blown it and he doesn't want me to come and visit anymore? What if he's decided to press for divorce? What if he's done it again?_ And then when I finally opened it and read those words…"

"I know," he tells her gently. "And honestly, Anna, I'm so sorry for making you doubt and feel those things. If I could have my time again, I would never do anything to hurt you."

She silently accepts this, lying back on her side. John follows her, sweeping her up in his arms, nipping at her ear until she squeals aloud.

"My dearest Anna," he begins to growl in her ear, and she shivers as his voice makes goosebumps erupt on her body. Oh God, the sensation is delicious.

"What on earth are you doing?" she giggles as his hands grab playfully at her hips.

"Well, what do you think I'm doing?" he says, melding his lips against her neck.

She sighs, tears forgotten, and drives her body against his, letting him know her wishes unmistakeably. "It sounds as if you're reciting your letter to me."

"Perhaps I am," he hums. "I will never be inspiring when it comes to the spoken word…"

"Stop it," she laughs, pushing against his chest until he rolls over.

"Is my choice of wooing not to your taste, my lady?" he asks. "Would you perhaps prefer it if I recited something else? What about poetry?"

"No," she says, raking her fingernails down his side.

"You mean you're not in the least bit affected by Shakespeare? Donne? Yeats?"

She wrinkles her nose. "I'm afraid Yeats would have the opposite effect on me. He doesn't write the most amorous of things."

"Then perhaps a sonnet by John Bates will do the trick," he murmurs, tracing a hand down her outer thigh.

She represses a whimper with the most impressive of efforts. "I can't say I've ever heard of him. He can't be very famous."

"Shouldn't the quality of his work matter more than how famous he is?" he asks. His fingers move further in.

"It should, but his quality of work is rather shoddy," she says.

Outwitted, John simply stares with wide-eyed shock. And she can't help it. She bursts into peals of laughter at his expression, loud and unashamed. And even though she is laughing at him, John can't help but feel proud. He has not heard that sound in so long. It is more beautiful than any song.

"I should punish you for that," he growls, pretending to be angry.

"I think you should." The press of her body is eager.

His fingers move in. This time she cannot help moaning. The sound is loud in the darkness. He worries briefly that the guard outside their door will be able to hear them.

The thought of the guard brings reality crashing back down, crushing him. How easy it is to forget the outside world, to act playfully as though they are young sweethearts and not two fully grown adults. How easy it is to pretend that they are free.

But oh, how much it hurts to remember that they are just as trapped as ever.

"John?" Anna's voice is confused. His fingers have stopped moving, he realises vaguely.

He tries to force a smile. The muscles in his mouth don't seem to be working.

"What's the matter?" she asks him concernedly.

"Nothing," he says quickly.

She stares him down, but says nothing. And then she moves his hand away from her, pushing him onto his back. She then proceeds to crawl until she hovers over him on her hands and knees. Despite himself, he smiles slightly.

"What on earth are you doing?" he asks her, with just the right lilt to his voice, echoing her question from minutes before.

"I'm baking a cake," she shoots back cheekily, then drops her mouth onto his. His hands find the dip in her back…and then move lower.

She makes a sound of pleasure, then traps him between her arms and legs. She looks down at him, biting her lip a little shyly. She looks so beautiful.

"Show me what to do," she whispers.

He groans aloud, guides her hand, encourages her with soft touches and deft kisses and pleading words.

Tomorrow will come to attempt to make their world fall apart again. There are still fears, still torments, still demons. But, for now, for a fleeting moment, piece by piece, the world begins to repair itself.

How long it can last remains to be seen.

* * *

When their lovemaking is over, they lay together in the darkness. No sounds can be heard save for their breathing. John's chest is comforting against her back. His arms are wrapped tightly around her waist. Their legs are tangled together. Anna can almost believe that it is a scene from their future, after a hard day of work up at Downton Abbey.

But it's not.

His head rests against her shoulder. She likes the way his breath blows against her ear. It is soothing. She can feel her eyelids drooping. The combination of their exertions and previous restless nights have made the pull of sleep almost irresistible. Still she fights it, forcing her eyes to focus on the wavering candlelight in front of her. It blurs.

"John?" she manages to murmur through a yawn.

"Yes?" His voice is a gentle rumble. It is the most soothing sound she has ever heard.

"Keep talking to me," she says.

"Why?"

She yawns again. "Because I fear that I'm going to fall asleep if you don't."

He presses a kiss against her neck. "Perhaps it's a good idea if you _do_ go to sleep, Anna."

She shakes her head. "No, it's not a good idea at all. We only have a few hours left together. I don't want to waste them sleeping."

"But you're exhausted. It would make me feel better if you rested a little."

"There's plenty of time for that tomorrow night," she argues.

"Anna, I know you haven't been sleeping well at all recently. I don't see how tomorrow night will be any different."

There is a pause. Anna has to bite her lip to prevent yet another yawn from escaping and adding to his case. She had meant it. They are currently living on borrowed time. She doesn't want to waste her final hours with him sleeping. She wants to spend them talking, maybe even laughing. Perhaps even making love again, if it's possible. But she doesn't want to spend them

_(dead)_

oblivious to the world.

"I have an idea," John murmurs. "Sleep for an hour. I know it's not much, but I'll feel better knowing that you've had at least a little rest. And then I'll wake you up so that we can spend the time how you want."

Anna has to smile at the absurdity of the fact that they're bargaining over sleep. She wants to disagree with him and say that she might as well stay awake since an hour of sleep isn't anything, but her mouth betrays her by yawning once more. He chuckles against her, amused by her unbidden agreement with him. The sound is rich. It makes Anna want to cry all over again. She hasn't heard it

_(since their wedding night)_

for a very long time.

When will she hear it again?

"Sleep, Anna," he says. "I'll wake you soon."

She nods reluctantly, then twists her head to the side. He lifts his head from her shoulder in question, and she takes the opportunity to reach up and kiss him chastely.

"I love you," she says.

"I love you too. Now go to sleep."

She sighs dramatically at his gentle orders, laying her head back on the pillow and pushing herself more firmly against him. He shifts until he finds a comfortable position behind her, his head now sharing her pillow, and squeezes her tightly. The quiet is peaceful. Anna can feel her eyelids beginning to droop as soon as she settles down. She doesn't try to fight her fatigue this time. This time, it covers her like a blanket within the minute, and she slips peacefully into slumber.

John can tell that she is asleep from the way that her breathing has evened and deepened, and he tightens his hold on her waist, hoping that he can keep the darkness at bay. He wants so much to. He knows that the times ahead are going to be incredibly trying. He doesn't want to go back to prison. He feels sick at the thought of it. He doesn't want to go back to the monotony and being completely isolated, even when he is surrounded by hundreds of other men. He is afraid that if he is there for too long,

_(he will lose hope and do it all over again, even if he's promised Anna – promises are made to be broken after all)_

the depression will kick back in again. He is not naïve. He knows that he hasn't miraculously been cured in just a few days. It has dimmed, it is true; it has dimmed because he has allowed Anna to be close to him again, and she has allowed herself to forgive him, even though she shouldn't have. Her touch is healing. But he doesn't know if she can heal him from afar.

_You can't do this again,_ he tells himself. _No matter how bad things get, you can't do this to her again. You heard what she said earlier. It would destroy her. And you promised._

He shifts just slightly so that he can peer at the side of her face. So perfect. Her profile is the most beautiful thing he has ever laid eyes on. Her breath issues from her mouth in quiet bursts. Her little nose is perfection. One of her hands – the left – is curled in the pillow by her face. Her wedding ring glints in the dying candlelight.

Seeing it gives him strength. Anna is his wife. She is willing to

_(love him, for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse)_

stand by him no matter what is thrown in their direction. She doesn't falter,

_("Do you never doubt? For just one minute? I wouldn't blame you."_

"_No. And I don't doubt that the sun will rise in the east, either.")_

trusts her own instincts implicitly. Her faith in him is staggering. She deserves no less than the same amount of faith in return. He will give it to her. He will try so hard to be strong for her.

She is so warm in his arms. The feel of her naked skin is wonderful. It is like silk against his own old, tired body. He closes his eyes, basks in the feel of it. It can only ever be a snatched moment, borrowed time. But this night will have to last him through the trials and tribulations that are to come.

The next thing he is aware of is

_(hearing the words not guilty, feeling the relief, turning to see Anna crying, but this time they are happy tears, smiling as though she has been given the world, moving towards her, sweeping her up in his arms, bringing his lips to hers, tasting the salt of her tears, hearing her whisper,_ welcome home, John…_)_

the sunlight hitting him in the face. He stirs blearily, unwinding an arm from Anna's waist so that he can shield his eyes. He is momentarily disorientated, wondering why there is such light when it should still be dark, and then his eyes land on the clock.

Half past seven. Somehow, he's slept the night away. He'd promised Anna that he would stay awake and rouse her, but he's already broken his first promise. He has just an hour and a half until the guard takes him away. Icy dread settles in the pit of his stomach, hard and unforgiving. He doesn't want to go back. Not to that. He can't cope with that all over again. He can feel the panic rising up his body, blocking his throat. He can't breathe. He doesn't want to go back to

_(being ridiculed for being a cripple, being pushed around, hearing crude remarks about Anna at every turn, letting the darkness take hold)_

that place ever again. He wants to stay right here with Anna, with her milky limbs pressed against his. He wants to lie here with her, whispering in her ear, letting her gentle touch seal the wounds which have torn him open.

Anna is still sleeping so peacefully beside him. He knows he should wake her and spend his final hour with her, but for a moment, as he lifts himself up onto his elbow and gazes down into her face, he is mesmerised. With the sunlight gently highlighting the soft contours of her face, she looks like an angel. Her hair is a yellow halo around her head. Her small and dainty frame belies her true strength. His hand hovers above her face, wanting to touch but not quite daring. What if he

_(smothers out her light with his darkness)_

mars her beauty? He doesn't think he can bear the thought of destroying her again. Perhaps, despite everything that he's said and done, it would be better all round if he slipped away and told the guard outside their door to take him back to Pentonville right now. He can deny Anna her right to visit. He can release her that way.

_Don't think like that,_ he says firmly to himself. _That sort of thinking got you into this situation in the first place. Concentrate on this. Anna means the world to you. Listen to what Lady Mary said. You have to fight it._

Yes, he has to fight it, has to look forward to his future with Anna. If he dreams of it hard enough, it has to come true.

Doesn't it?

He's scared. So scared.

His hand is splayed against her stomach. Her skin moves beneath him whenever she breathes. He feels so cold at the sensation. Oh God, he could be sick. Just what has he done? How can he have let himself make love to her when there could be such dire consequences? He should have stayed firm, should have spent the evening simply talking rather than endangering her future. What if, right at this very moment, their child is beginning to form under his hand? If she really is pregnant, there is nothing that he will be able to do to support her. He has no way of sending her any money to ensure that she can keep both herself and their child well. She won't be able to continue to work at Downton Abbey juggling the needs of a small child, no matter how kind Lord Grantham has been to the two of them in the past. She would have to leave employment long before she had a baby. And then what? Would she go back to her parents' farm and let them help her? Or would she be too proud, determined to do it alone, consequently harming them both through stress and fear? And how could he be of any assistance? He couldn't ever be a proper father. He can't even bear thinking about the two of them coming to visit him as he wallowed in filth, the child an absolute replica of its mother, missing all of those important moments like its first word and its first step and its birthdays and its achievements. And how could a child ever love him like a father, someone who it couldn't rely on, someone absent from its life except for half an hour every week. No, the child would resent him, and perhaps even Anna, for saddling it with such a useless excuse for a man as a father. The child would, completely justifiably, want nothing to do with him.

_John Bates, if you've ruined this, you'll never forgive yourself._

Anna stirs beneath him. Her eyes flicker open sleepily. She looks confused, and he wonders why. And then she brings a hand up to her face and brushes away a tear.

_Why is she crying?_ he wonders, but then she looks at him, and her eyes are clear.

He realises then that _he_ is the one who is crying. He is completely humiliated. He shouldn't be crying. He has no right to. And he certainly shouldn't have woken Anna in the process.

Anna sits up at once. The sheets pool around her waist. She is a goddess with the sun behind her. She is perfect in every way. How can he put her through that all over again?

"John, what on earth is the matter?" She sounds

_(terrified)_

nonplussed, concerned. Her hands reach out to touch his face. He flinches. She winces at his reaction to her. Her teeth bite hard into her lip. She looks so hurt. He's done it again. He's hurt her. He's

_(worthless)_

never going to make her happy. She's going to be forever imprisoned, condemned to her own life sentence for standing by a man she should never have loved in the first place.

Knowing that he won't answer her, Anna moves forward and gathers him up in her arms. He tries to fight her off at first, which leaves her all the more concerned, but she holds onto him determinedly, one hands pressed against the back of his neck, the other threading through his hair. He sags against her after a few moments. He isn't one for tears, her John. She's never seen him cry yet. He had welled up

_(when they had said goodbye to each other for the final time)_

on the that horrible day all those months ago, and he had even shed a tear, but he had quickly composed himself, his strong façade back in place. She holds him close against her. His head is warm against her chest. He doesn't make a sound, but she knows he is still crying. He is drenching her skin.

On instinct, she whispers words of love and comfort into his ear. She isn't sure if he is listening to her, but at least he has stopped resisting her. His own arms have made their way around her back, and he is clinging to her in much the same way as she did to him last night. She rests her cheek against his hair, sliding her hand down to press against his back. She doesn't know what has brought this on. It frightens her a little. Last night he'd been so sure, so comforting, so full of hope. He'd been a pillar of strength again. What has happened in the last few hours to make that crumble down around her?

At last his tears seem to stop. She lets him rest against her for a few minutes longer, then gently pushes him away so that she can see his face. His eyes are red and puffy. He looks so lost.

She touches his face, feeling the sticky trace of tears left behind. He doesn't hold her gaze, dropping it to her shoulder.

"John," she says again. "I want you to tell me what's wrong."

"It's nothing," he replies. His voice wavers. He is almost a stranger in front of her once more.

"It's clearly not nothing," she tells him. "Now, I expect you to answer me properly. I am your wife. Your burdens are my burdens. We can endure them together. But we can't solve them alone."

His breath shudders from his body. What has happened to the strong man of yesterday, who had promised her with such conviction that he would not let his doubts fester and overcome him again? How has that changed in the space of such little time? It scares her. She'd hoped that perhaps they were on the way back to some sort of normalcy. Now it appears as if it's anything but normal. If his state of mind is this fragile, what will stop him listening to his demons in the future?

_No, it can't be like this. Please._

"John," she repeats, and this time he looks at her. His expression is one of such acute agony that it almost takes her breath away.

"I'm such a fool," he says quietly.

"Why?" she asks.

He shifts uncomfortably against her, obviously unwilling to answer her. "Because…because it's so easy to give in."

Her heart beats faster in her chest. "What do you mean?"

He has nothing to lose by telling her the truth. "I've already been thinking about just leaving you behind, Anna. And I don't know what to do!"

The words hurt more than any injury ever could. They have not even been separated yet, and he already wants to leave her behind in the darkness, is prepared to let their relationship crumble all over again. She should feel anger at his insistence of giving in, but all she feels is a terror so profound that she fears that she might be sick.

But she pushes the trepidation away. She has to be practical. John is not the same man as he was before this whole thing started. She has to tread carefully.

"Then you have to fight it," she tells him softly. "You can't leave me behind. No matter what happens, I will always love you. I may have lost sight of the big picture myself a little over this last week, but I know that I could never give you up. Not ever. So don't try and shut me out. Let me in."

His voice is shaking. Now that he's begun to pour his heart out, it seems he can't stop. "Anna, I'm scared. I'm scared that I won't be strong enough to resist the temptation if the urge to do something…something like this overcomes me again. I'm scared that I'll warp what we have into something that can never be salvaged. I almost did it this time. What if next time I succeed? My heart wants you with every fibre within me, and it never wants to let go of you. But sometimes my mind…it takes me to dark places, Anna. And I'm cared that it will continue to try and convince me that you're better off without me."

She can imagine the scene now, such a war raging within him, tearing him apart at the seams. And she knows that she has to do something to put his fears to rest.

"John Bates," she says quietly, cupping his face between her hands. "I won't let you go through this alone. We can fix this."

_(with this ring…as a symbol of all that we promise…)_

"But how can this be fixed?" he asks her, anguished.

"By keeping strong for each other," she tells him gently. "I won't let the darkness take you again. I promise. You're mine."

_(…and all that we share.)_

He nods, and then suddenly there is fire in his eyes. It burns her to the core. There is a need, a desperate desire, a necessity for her to cement her oath to him. He tugs at her hair and angles his face to hers. His lips are hot, feverish, mad. They are burning her away. All at once, his reservations about making love to her are gone; no longer does his decision haunt him. He has to be enveloped by her again. He has to feel every soft contour of her body. A child is the last thing on his mind as he seizes her lips.

She pulls him down with her, immersing herself in the sheets again. Her arms are around his neck. His are grasping at her hips. He tugs at her desperately. She lets him lead. When they had made love earlier, he had been as careful and gentle as possible, ensuring that he did everything he could to give her pleasure. Now she knows that this time is all about reassuring him, to let him see that their love can be enough to carry them through the darkest hour. His hands are almost rough as they pull at her hips. She doesn't mind. She slips a hand down their bodies, tentative, readying him for what is to come. He lets her, breathing hard. His own hand moves towards her to reciprocate the action. She bites her lip to keep silent.

When they are both ready, he pushes into her. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, pulling him urgently to her, wanting to make them as joined as they can possibly be. She can feel tears lurking in her own eyes, but she blinks them away. John doesn't need to see those. Not now. He is frail enough. She kisses him, tastes salt. She can't close her eyes. She fears that if she does, this will all disappear. She fears that she'll be left alone to fight for what they have. She needs this. She needs to watch her husband's face, needs to see the emotions playing there. Needs to feel loved, cherished. Needs to feel safe in the knowledge that they are facing the world together.

She reaches up, touches his face with trembling fingers. When her wedding ring, such a symbol of hope

_(I, Anna May Smith, take thee, John Bates, to be my wedded husband)_

and such a sign of comfort mere hours ago, comes into contact with his face, he recoils as though it has branded him. There is a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, because

_(he is seeing it as a symbol of entrapment again)_

she wants him to be _glad_ that she is branding him as her own, binding them together.

Despite it all, however, she can't stop herself from responding to him. She needs this. He needs this. They need this reassurance that everything will turn out just fine.

Even in the light, the darkness is always there. She just hopes that there is enough light in their world to see them through this madness unscathed.

* * *

They lay together afterwards, panting for breath. Anna's limbs feel shaky and weak. In their few times together, John has never made love to her like that before, so passionately, almost frenziedly. It had seemed as if he was trying to bury all of his doubts in their lovemaking. His desperation and desire for solace had driven his hips into hers. There had still been tears, even when he'd been unable to prevent himself from emitting little gasps of pleasure. The fact that he had allowed her to see him weak in such an intimate moment had made Anna feel privileged, but she is no fool. She knows that

_(he was too broken to put his barriers back up in time)_

it is not through choice that she had been witness to him falling apart.

Slowly, she runs her fingers over his back. His head is turned to the side, pillowed just under her breasts. His skin is rippling almost unperceptively. He is staring at the wall almost as if he can't see it. It reminds her of

_(that almost dead look from the beginning of this ordeal)_

how he'd looked when she'd visited him in the hospital that first time.

She knows he is scared. _She_ is scared. But they need to face their fears together so that they can overcome them as one.

Her eyes drift to the clock on the bedside. Less than one hour until he is torn from her arms again. There is a lump in her throat. She can't breathe because of it. They should have had all night together. He'd promised her that he'd wake her after an hour. Why hadn't he? Why had she spent the majority of their second night together slumbering? She should have fought her fatigue like she'd wanted to. They should have spent the hours loving each other. It is her fault that John had retreated to such an unstable state this morning. She should have been there to reassure him when his niggling doubts took hold.

She gently shifts under her husband's warm weight, forcing him to turn to look at her. She tries to smile. Her lips don't want to cooperate.

"Come up here," she tells him softly. "I want to hold you properly."

He hesitates for a moment, before shifting. Obviously he wants the same, despite any misgivings he might be having. She wraps him in her arms as he comes to lie on his side next to her. He buries his head in her neck. She can feel his breath against her, warm and alive.

How is she going to let him go again?

_You have to,_ she tells herself firmly. _You can't crumble now. If you do, he will. And there might be no surviving that._

She lets him have a few minutes to compose himself. She knows he is embarrassed by his loss of control. Then she nudges the side of his face with her nose, gently easing him away from her until she can see his face. He holds her gaze, a good sign, but he looks agonised.

"I'm sorry, Anna," he murmurs softly.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," she says briskly. "You needed that. Don't apologise for that. Now, I want you to lay here and listen to me."

"Why?" He sounds so despondent.

"You listened to Lady Mary, didn't you? And she's not even your wife. So you're going to have to listen to me."

He holds her gaze, then nods just the once. She breathes a sigh of relief. Finally. Progress.

Gently, letting him grow accustomed to her intentions, she snakes her hands down to his, and raises his arms to her face. His expression is forlorn and quizzical. She attempts to give him a reassuring smile, but inside she is

_(going to be sick)_

preparing herself for what she is about to do. John's bandages had been removed two days ago, but she has yet to lay eyes on the scars of destruction left behind. She'd been terrified of what she would do upon seeing them.

Now she knows she has no choice.

Tentatively, she turns his arms over until his wrists are exposed to her. She takes a moment to compose herself, then slides her gaze down to them. She expects to see

_(rivers of blood)_

harsh, angry cuts, but they are much more healed than that, pink and scabby. Her breath catches. She swallows hard. She cannot cry. She has to be strong.

They are long, so long. One starts from the base of his hand and snakes all the way up his forearm. They are a mess, a tangled web,

_(and what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive)_

random and confused. The pale blue of his veins are disfigured by them. There are many of them. She swallows her bile. _She has to be strong._

John is watching her, reading every expression in her eyes. It is paramount that she doesn't show her horror. It will only make him feel like a worthless man all over again.

So she does the only thing she can. She brings his wrists to her mouth and kisses them. The scars are rough against her lips. They are uncomfortable.

But it is reassuring for him. An angel's touch. She feels him relax almost immediately, his body softening in her arms. Encouraged by this, she lets her lips run the course of the scars, getting to know each one intimately well, hearing the

_(screams)_

stories that they tell as she traces them. Each one is unique. She can tell just from the way that they are formed which ones were the first and which ones were fashioned later, through the pain and his less favoured hand. The brush of her lips is almost non-existent. She glances up and finds his gaze. He is staring at her intently. She holds his gaze as she runs her tongue lightly over one of those scars, letting him know that she accepts them as a part of him now. He shudders, pulling his arms away so that he can pull her against him, his mouth finding hers in a fierce kiss.

She doesn't want to accept those scars. She will never grow to love them, not the way she has grown to love the thick web of scars that crisscross over his knee and lower leg. Those scars are ones of honour and bravery, of a good man. The scars he bears on his wrists are ones of shame and cowardice, badges of disgrace.

And yet she must. For his sake.

He pulls away from her eventually, simply gazing into her eyes. He reaches up to brush the pad of his thumb under her eye.

"Thank you," he tells her quietly.

"For what?"

"For that. For not letting me lose myself."

"I don't intend to let you lose yourself ever again, John Bates."

He nods. She moves forward, curling up against him, burying her head under his chin.

"I mean it, John," she says. "Never give up on hope again. No matter what happens, never give up. If you think things are getting too much to bear…don't shut me out. Let me know. If you don't want to reveal everything to my face, then write it down. Writing it down when Lady Mary visited helped you, didn't it?"

His hand finds her back, warm and firm. "Yes."

"Then do it again. It doesn't matter how angry or anguished they are. Pour your soul into them and send them to me. I'm strong. I can handle them, no matter what they say. And I can try to help you through the darkness if you let me in. If you keep me out, I haven't got the slightest chance. I don't want everything to fall apart around us. I love you. I'd do anything in my power to help you, you know that, don't you?"

He drops a kiss against her hair. "I do."

God, how could he ever have doubted her? How had he been thinking about leaving her behind? How could he have started to regret making love to her, making them both whole?

"So promise me, John. Promise me you'll write to me whenever you begin to feel low. Promise me you'll keep strong, you'll remember that you're worthy of every ounce of my love, and that one day you'll be free to let me show you just how worthy you are. Give me your word."

"You have my word, Anna." His voice is so soft, so sincere. It makes tears well up in her eyes. For now, their bond is restored. For now, their faith is repaired. She prays it will remain as unwavering in the difficult months to come.

Of their own accord, her eyes find the clock. The ticking is loud in her head. Quarter past eight. Less than one hour to go until he has to leave her again.

She swallows hard. Turns her face up to him. Pulls him close. "Kiss me, John."

He obliges willingly and time is forgotten, at least for a moment.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Anna reluctantly eases away from her husband's lips, breath shuddering from her body. She knows that they can't delay any longer. They have to be ready to say goodbye.

John seems to know exactly why she has pulled away. His hand trembles as he strokes her face one last time. She kisses his fingertips, giving him the reassurance he seeks. He tries for a smile. It's weak and sad.

And then he sits up, shuffling to the edge of the bed and sliding out of it. Anna follows suit, letting the sheets pool around her hips, watching his progress as he moves to pick up the clothes that he had abandoned mere hours before. There is something rather erotic about watching him move naked around the room. She wishes that she could sneak up behind him and pull him back to bed to spend the day simply lying between the sheets together. But they can't. She wonders if they will ever have the opportunity to spend a day so frivolously together.

She slips out of bed as well, moving towards the chair where she'd laid her dress the day before. There is quiet. She watches as John struggles to pull his shirt on. He is shaking again. Slowly, she sidles up to him, helps him to right himself. Her palms cup his face.

"Go to the bathroom and clean yourself up," she tells him softly. Her voice is unsteady. "I'll get ready here and I'll wait for you to come back. All right?"

He nods, quaking slightly. She watches as he limps over to the door. He casts one last look over his shoulder, and then he is gone.

With a determined expression on her face, Anna sits down at the vanity.

* * *

John returns to her not long after. He stands before her in an ill-fitting suit. Anna is that used to seeing him in his prison outfit, that she barely recognises him. He's slicked his hair back, like he used to in Lord Grantham's employ. His scars are once again hidden from sight. She almost believes that

_(this whole sorry mess was just a nightmare)_

he is free. Free to return home with her. Free to love.

"How do I look?" he asks quietly.

She swallows hard. She remembers

_(his eyes crinkling as he'd posed that same question to her whilst she'd taken his arm, wearing her absolute best, mere minutes away from having her life transformed for good)_

him asking her just that on their wedding day. Now it forever holds a second memory. It seems like no matter what, the good recollections will always be tainted by the bad ones that mirror them.

"You look perfect," she manages through dry lips. "Perfect." Her voice cracks.

They don't have chance to exchange any more words because there is a sharp rap on the door. They freeze. It is time.

As if in a dream,

_(or nightmare)_

Anna moves towards the door. Her hand slips into John's as she passes him. He clasps her hand tightly and follows her. She opens the door. The guard is standing right outside. He looks impatient.

"Time to go, Bates," he says, disregarding her completely. She feels her husband sagging at her side. His palm is suddenly sweaty against hers, though she isn't sure if it's just his, or if her own has become warm and slick as well. Neither of them move. They can't. They can't say goodbye again.

"Anna?"

And suddenly Lady Mary is at the end of the corridor, walking briskly towards them.

"Anna, are you all right?" she calls as she moves.

"Y–Yes, milady," she manages to say. Her teeth clack against each other. She is suddenly so cold.

Mary comes to a stop at the guard's side. He turns reluctantly as she taps him smartly on the arm.

"What is it, my lady?" he says. Sarcasm drips off his words.

Lady Mary narrows her eyes, obviously not used to being addressed in such a manner. "You will kindly give Mr. and Mrs. Bates a few minutes to say goodbye to each other."

"They should've done that before now," the guard replies sardonically. "I was told to take him away at nine. If they haven't had the chance to complete their goodbyes yet, then that's their fault." He leers at them as the last remark passes through his lips, and Anna feels herself flushing despite herself. She knows then that the guard had heard every moment of their lovemaking. And suddenly it feels as though the whole evening had been nothing more than a sordid affair; she feels so exposed, so dirty. The guard's expression transforms what had been a wonderful time between two people in love into something that feels wrong.

Heedless to this, Lady Mary fixes him with a withering stare. "I'm sure a few minutes' delay won't cause any problems. We are currently all guests in Lady Rosamund Painswick's house. So do be hospitable and let them say goodbye."

The guard snorts. Evidently he doesn't think much of the way that the aristocracy seem to think that they can have everything their own way. Still, he obviously daren't openly defy such an influential power, for he turns back to Anna and John.

"One minute," he says curtly. "And I'm not moving anywhere, so you'll have to do them here."

It's not ideal. But it's better than nothing. Anna turns to face her husband with what she hopes it at least a good attempt at a smile. He tries to return it, but he looks as though he is in pain.

She is aware of both the guard and Lady Mary watching them intently – Lady Mary curiously, the guard contemptuously – but she can't care about that fact now. Whether they want to or not, they have to let their emotions out in the open.

She moves towards John. He seems to be more uncomfortable than ever at the thought of public displays of affection. But

_(on the day that he'd been arrested, he'd declared his heart to the world and let her kiss him, however briefly)_

he has done it before. She knows he will do it again now.

Her arms go around his neck. He holds her by the waist. They are passed the point of propriety. She cranes her neck. He dips his head. Their lips meet. The kiss is honest, open, gentle. She tightens her hold on his neck and pushes herself snug against him. He squeezes her tightly, so tightly. She doesn't want to breathe again. She just wants everything to end like this.

What can't be more than ten seconds later, there is a loud, pointed clearing of a throat. They know what that means. Slowly, they pull away from each other, until Anna's forehead is resting against John's chin. They know that both Lady Mary and the guard are still watching them. It doesn't matter now. Not when they are to be parted again.

Gradually, Anna lifts her head so that she can stare into her husband's face. His eyes are dark and churning with something akin to fear. She raises herself on her tiptoes again.

"I love you," she murmurs, brushing her lips just barely over his as she speaks.

"I love you too," he whispers in reply. His voice is shaking again.

For the final time, they pull apart, and Anna steps completely away, knowing that if she doesn't let him go now, she never will. He offers her one last grimacing smile, then turns to the guard.

"We can go," he says. Anna had thought that perhaps there would be fear in his voice, but there is no trace of anything but strength as he faces his fate. She doesn't think that she could love him more in that instant.

The guard gives a condescending grin, then pulls out a set of handcuffs. John's face remains impassive as they are brought towards him. Anna is the one who has to stifle a cry. It is all too much like

_(that fateful day when he was dragged out of her life)_

the first time. She doesn't know if she's strong enough to cope again.

But then his eyes meet hers and, despite everything, they reassure her.

"I'll write you," he promises her as the cuffs are clicked tight around his wrists. "No matter what I'm feeling, I'll write you."

His words spur her into action, and she springs forward before the guard can begin to drag him away. Fishing out the letter that she had tucked into her dress, she slips it into his jacket pocket.

"I've started the tradition," she says. "Read it when you get back into your cell. And never forget that I love you."

He nods at her. "I won't. I promise."

Neither of them know whether he'll be able to keep his promises this time. Only time will bring them the future. And yet Anna knows that she must trust him, must trust him with every fibre of her being.

"I'll come and visit you just as soon as I can," she pledges.

Before either of them can say anything else, the guard gives a sharp tug on John's arm and begins to lead him away. Anna thinks her knees are going to buckle, but Lady Mary is at her elbow in a second, holding onto her tightly, not letting her fall apart. She stands there silently, and Anna continues to stare as her husband is led down the corridor. He turns the corner without a backwards glance…and then he is gone. In her mind's eye, she sees him limping down the stairs, gritting his teeth every time he has to put his entire weight on his right leg. She sees him bowing his head in shame as he is led out of the door towards the unmarked motor. She fancies that she hears the rev of an engine, and then he is as gone from her mind as he is in person.

She lets out a breath that she hadn't known she'd been holding.

Lady Mary squeezes her elbow gently.

"Are you all right?" she asks sympathetically. "I know how hard this must be for you."

Her heart is aching. But she tries to smile anyway. "Yes, milady, I'm all right."

Lady Mary surprises her then by slipping her hand into hers. Anna turns to look at her, a little surprised. Lady Mary only smiles.

"You'll get through this," she tells her. "We'll all make sure of that."

Anna nods. "Thank you, milady."

She squeezes her hand once more. "I'm going to go for some breakfast. Take the rest of the day off. We'll head back to Downton tomorrow."

With that, she follows the path that John has just taken. Anna watches her leave. Her heart is pumping hard in her chest, trying to process the turmoil of the last few minutes.

At the end of the corridor, Lady Mary turns towards her one last time. She looks hesitant.

"What's the matter, milady?" Anna asks.

She looks as if she is torn between keeping silent and asking the question that is clearly plaguing her.

Seeing this, Anna is quick to encourage her. "You can say whatever you want to me, my lady."

Lady Mary nods, then asks diffidently, "do you…do you ever regret the things that have happened?"

Does she regret anything? Of course she

_(does)_

doesn't. There are

_(so many bad times vera her death his arrest the trial being sentenced to death his life imprisonment his failed suicide attempt)_

so many good times that she would never change for the world, despite everything that has been thrown at them. She would never change even the smallest part of their story. They love each other. They will have to be strong for each other.

"No, my lady," she says, and her voice is resilient. "I don't regret a thing."

Lady Mary nods then, satisfied, and leaves Anna standing there alone.

No regrets. She doesn't regret falling in love with John Bates. She doesn't regret any of the secret kisses, the stolen conversations, the afternoons that they had sneaked away from the house on the pretence of running important errands. She knows that no matter what, she will never regret marrying him, because

_("Did you love Bates more than anyone else in the world?"_

"_I did. I do. I could never love again like I love him. Never.")_

she knows that marrying him was the best decision of her life. She will gladly bear his name for eternity, come hell or high water.

One day, they _will_ have their happy ending. She will hold him in her arms as a free man. They will share embraces and kisses without being judged by the world. They will make love without the dread of being separated in the morning. And she will bear his children. She will watch them grow with the perfect father. They will have a happy family life.

She just has to trust in it.

John has promised her that he won't give up on hope.

This time, she believes him.

* * *

John sits in his cell, his back against the hard wall. It is cold and damp. His knee is throbbing, revenge for asking so much of it over the last twenty four hours. He has been gone from this place for almost a week, and yet nothing about it is different. It is still small and grimy, still cold and unforgiving. The light is grey and lonely. Back in his prison attire, John shivers. He knows that the fellow who occupies the cell opposite him is staring. He ignores him.

On a whim, he pulls out the letter that Anna had pressed into his jacket. He traces the letters of his name lovingly, adoring her small, neat handwriting. Carefully, as though the paper is more precious than spun gold, he peels open the envelope. Taking care when unfolding the letter inside so that he doesn't accidently tear it, he holds it up to the light.

_My dearest John,_

_I've asked you to be honest with me at all times, so I will do nothing but extend the same courtesy back to you. As I write this letter, I am very scared. I'm scared of what the future will bring us. I'm scared of what will be thrown at us next. Sometimes I feel as if we are never going to get our happy ending._

_But then I remember everything we've gone through, and I know that this will only make us stronger. I remember all the times where we laughed and teased and had fun, and they comfort me. I know that we'll get through this. Together. I don't know when that will be, but rest assured that I will not stop fighting for your freedom. I will do whatever is in my power to uncover the truth._

_Write me as soon as you can. I look forward to receiving whatever you write. And remember, don't keep all of your feelings locked up inside. If you're feeling lost or scared or angry, then let me know. Even though I'm not there with you, I will do my utmost to help you. I love you. Don't ever forget it, Mr. Bates._

_Forever yours,_

_Anna xx_

He smiles as he gets to the end of the letter. All at once, his faith is restored. Slowly, he replaces the letter in the envelope and raises it to his nose. It carries just the smallest hint of Anna's fragrance.

He slips it inside his clothes. There is a little pocket within. It rests directly over his heart, giving him hope every time it rubs against his skin.

He will write to her just as soon as he can get hold of the means to do so. He will pour his heart out to her a second time, let her know the parts of him that he would never trust to another person. She is the light in his darkness, and he will gladly follow her, no matter where she leads him.

_I swear to you, Anna Bates, that I will never do anything that will cause you such pain ever again. I promise you._

Some promises were made to be broken.

But his promise to Anna is not one of them.

* * *

**A/N: **And there we have it. I know the tone changed a few times during the course of this chapter, and I'm hoping that it wasn't too jarring; I was attempting to convey how easy it is to go from feeling fine to feeling terribly sad and alone in such a short space of time, but I'm not sure if I got it across all that well. It would be nice to hear your thoughts.

Thank you so, so much for all of the reviews and favourites and alerts that you've given this story. I'm rather overwhelmed by all of the reviews! They have been immensely helpful and wonderful to read, so thank you all so much. I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as the previous ones. Let's all hope that series three brings us a bit more happiness than this. Free Bates!


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